


Pretas

by Billywick, selwyn



Series: A Shudder Before The Beautiful (Transformers Roleplay fiction) [5]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Gore, M/M, also Overlord so you know, lots of mnemosurgery ahead, needles needles needles, sort of sticky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 10:10:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7797739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Billywick/pseuds/Billywick, https://archiveofourown.org/users/selwyn/pseuds/selwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>quo fata ferunt: where the fates bear us to.</p><p>The price of his life and body had been death and a leash. The second price was life and freedom. The third price remains unpaid, but Overlord and Trepan will work something out. They always did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> BIG SHOUTOUT to Koch43 whose amazing work inspired us massively to resurrect Trepan in the first place!
> 
> (This is a behemoth of a roleplay which is loosely based on the happenings of MTMTE. As per usual for my uploaded roleplays, there is a lot of pov hopping. If that doesn't disrupt your enjoyment, I invite you to join our adventure. The parts will be posted in reading order and tagged by which pairing they address.)

 

No one did anything for free. That was one of the oldest lessons new mecha were taught. Everything from their lives to their functions had a price.

Overlord was intimately familiar with this maxim.

So when he woke up, bound down and body nonfunctional, staring into the face of an organic alien as they proposed something for him in their alien tongue, he agreed. It’d been with a smile on his face, so maybe something in the aliens realized they’d woken a creature too dangerous to be free.

The price of his life and body had been death and a leash.

Megatron’s death was supposed to be a grand moment for him. For Overlord, for all the years he spent waiting on Garrus-9, for _everything_ … and it’d been such a disappointment he didn’t even bother fighting the recall command echoing in his helm. He left, half-assed excuses on his lips, and turned his back on Megatron’s memory.

What a disappointment.

The aliens seemed to think Overlord was growing meeker. Quieter. He no longer fought their commands, seemingly content to follow along.

Foolish.

Overlord could bide his time. He knew how to read the situation, and the leash around his neck could just as easily become a noose. He wasn’t going to waste this new lease on life, not until he held the winning hand.

So he waited. He listened. He killed who they wanted him to kill, and went where they wanted him to go. Eventually, his leash loosened. A little more slack to go and leave as he pleased, to visit old sentimental sites like his dear, dear home planet.

It was so good that organics tended to think mechanisms lower than them. It meant Overlord could really _savor_ it when he stripped their skin down to their organic internals.

Cybertron was the same -- ugly, barren, lifeless. He ignored the tiny new settlement the Autobots were trying to call _New Iacon_ , going past it into the Red Wastes. The Institute kept their sites here, wagering on the wastes to kill newcomers and keep them hidden. Overlord had already visited this site once before, so he found it easily amid the jagged red stone.

It took an hour of effort to dig out the entrance. The door caved in to his kick and Overlord stepped into the cool, stale air of the underground bunker. The last time he came through here, it had ben to save Soundwave from his mistakes and for a souvenir. A useful one.

He prowled through the dark halls, relying on his sight and sensors to keep him apprised. The place was mostly empty, having been picked clean after his bust. Yet there were still interesting secrets, hidden in nooks and crannies. Overlord ripped down walls as he searched, gutting dead consoles and chambers as he probed deeper into the site.

It took two hours to find the hidden room. It was deeper underground than any of the rest, holding only a few things. A body, on a slab. A brain module, in a jar. All the parts that were needed to connect the two.

 _Interesting_.

He inspected the frame. It was slight, shorter than him, and had the telltale marks of a mnemosurgeon’s needles. It looked almost like…

Overlord frowned. _He’s dead_.

Yet _this_ body was alive, it wasn’t greyed out. The more he looked at it, the more familiar it looked. Bringing up an image from his internal files for comparison, Overlord had to admit that it wasn’t merely his imagination. This was a replica of Trepan’s frame.

_A clone?_

He looked at the brain module. His own needles were gone, unfortunately, so he couldn’t try and read it -- not that he could even if he wanted to, since his education had never been finished.

Overlord tapped a console experimentally, and it came alive. A few more taps, and the brain module was inserted into the frame. From here, the mech should just activate on his own.

 _Just who are you_?

 

Waking from a long stasis could take days. But whoever had prepared this module and this body had taken care of all the time-consuming factors far ahead of his moment of death. Almost as if he knew exactly that if he was reactivated somehow, there would be little use or patience for him to return to being online.

Trepan had made contingency plans long before he’d ever been taken by Overlord. The Institute was a place where only a certain kind of mecha found work, and even fewer made it through without any patterns of thought taking hold. Mnemosurgery was the apex of manipulation, and it was an artform, but those of lesser intellect would always hold it up as something diabolical. It wasn’t just the Decepticons who would target the Institute. Their enemies were all around. And that’s why this body, deeply hidden away, had been Trepan’s backup plan. One of a few.

The frame was slow to rouse, systems activating, checking for damage and knitting protocols into place. By the time his optics onlined, the brain module had already imbued him with his sense of self, his mind, his skills.

He knew from the moment he woke that he was a contingency and that something lethal had happened to his original frame and self. No matter. He survived, in a manner of speaking.

He also happened to pick up a massive field and shape in front of him that could not bode well, but whoever it was had awoken him, not crushed his brain module when it was vulnerable.

Friend? Foe? Opportunist? Trepan’s optics calibrated and he found himself staring at an expansive length of dark blue metal plating and, once they travelled up, glowing red. His data banks were not as complete as he’d like them to be, and his newly awakened systems were working hard to restore full functionality.

A Decepticon. Clearly. A familiar frame, but nothing came to mind, drawing a silent blank.

“...Who are you?”

 

It took a considerable amount of control to not let his disappointment control his impulses. Overlord looked down at the mech coolly, examining his expression and voice. They matched up with his memories of Trepan, save for… that.

“Overlord,” he said, not seeing a reason to lie, “I assume you don’t remember anything, do you, Trepan?”

Perhaps something could be salvaged from all of this.

 

“That depends on what you define as anything.” Trepan’s memory banks were spooling, but they didn’t find anything or anyone named Overlord. This mech was a mystery, but he could easily become a threat. He more than tripled Trepan in nearly every measurement and he was heavily armed. Not to mention he was a Decepticon and they were notoriously judgemental of mnemosurgeons.

He looked at his servos, inspecting each needle as it slid out to view. Everything in this frame seemed in order.

“I know that I must have died somewhere, sometime. I’m...a backup.” He looked back up at the mech suspiciously.

“Did you kill me?”

 

“Would I have done this if I had?” Overlord stepped closer, circling the berth with careful, measured curiosity. The lack of fear matched up… but maybe that was his own nostalgia speaking. This one was a mnemosurgeon, clearly, he didn’t seem surprised by the needles in his hands

“You will be coming with me, up to the surface.”

He had that controller in his helm. This one had to know a way to get rid of it, somehow. And he still needed a teacher, for everything Trepan had failed to teach him before his demise.

“You will be very useful to me.”

 

“We’re still under the Institute.” Trepan took measure of his surroundings. Those at least could be matched up to some rudimentary memories, faintly trickling into his processor. In the Institute, on Cybertron, with a Decepticon. So nothing had changed. He wondered how long he’d been dead, and what the state of the war was.

Coming with his ‘saviour’ didn’t sound appealing, but he also had little choice. With nothing to hand and no one but this massive mech for company, Trepan didn’t fancy trying out for disobedience and potential temper explosions.

He moved off of the slab, testing the stability of his frame. At least that was fully functional. He couldn’t use his external lenses yet and his needles were sluggish as he retracted them, but that was just a matter of core temperature and energon levels.

“ _You_ have use for a mnemosurgeon? And here I was convinced your leader would order our extinction on principle.”

 

Overlord offered his servo to Trepan, intending on simply picking him up and walking on. It would be faster than waiting for him to keep pace.

“What are your last memories?” he asked, expression unreadable. Trepan had died before the war ended, so he was obviously lacking a lot of news. But as a back-up, Overlord couldn’t tell how much he was already missing. He knew there was a war but he didn’t remember Overlord.

He needed more information.

 

The servo before him was massive and Trepan doubted that he was supposed to shake it. Clearly, Overlord didn’t intend to harm him. Yet. Perhaps Trepan could find use in him. Cooperation seemed prudent though, so he took a seat right in that offered palm. It suited him just fine to speed up the process of moving, and he did not have the orientation to lead them out of here himself.

“Specifically? Being created as my original self worked in the Institute. There was a lot of...excitement in the last couple of days of calibration. Word of a high-ranking Decepticon captive...I’m going to guess he is no longer here and that it was quite some time ago.”

 

He curled his arm around Trepan, settling him against his shoulder like they used to. It was bringing back memories, to hold him -- his backup -- like this. But this one wasn’t the same one, was he?

“You know you’re a copy?” he asked as he shouldered his way out of the small chamber. “And yes… that was Soundwave. He is no longer here. This site is dead, thanks to me. You’re late by a million years, Trepan.”

Overlord didn’t bother to search anymore. He began to pick his way towards the surface, supporting Trepan with one arm. “Megatron killed you. I should’ve realized you would be the type to create backups.”

 

“You sound like you knew me,” Trepan was content to hold onto Overlord’s shoulder. This was definitely an easy way to travel, and gave his frame time to adjust and recover. Was it a stroke of luck that had brought the blue mech down below the institute, or had he known? Had his original told him? No, no, that was contrary to what Overlord just revealed. He didn’t know Trepan had backups.

Megatron killed him. Hm. There was some irony in that. He remembered working on that brain module, dimly. Maybe Megatron had too, and took his revenge, the stupid savage.

“I’m not a copy. Well. I am. But I’m also not, if I died. There wasn’t time for numerous backups, this is a lengthy process, imprinting an entire brain module. I’m the only one. I assume if I ever recover my dead me’s frame or module, I could know what he knew. A million years? Is the war still going on?”

 

“Your frame is gone.” He would know, he’d seen it go up in flames. “You were my teacher, up until you died. You were teaching me mnemosurgery.”

_Overlord, we’re done today. Class dismissed._

“You died. I expect you to continue what you predecessor let unfinished.”

The Institute’s only entrance came into view. Overlord pushed his way out through the debris, shielding Trepan with his bulk. The Red Waste howled around them, empty and unforgiving.

“The war’s done. Megatron is gone. The Autobots are trying to settle back. I’m here to start a new one, but not the one my sponsors expect. And I will need you for that.”

 

The war was over. The Decepticons lost. Those were good news to any mech, but Trepan wondered what would have happened to him should Autobots have found his backup. Did his benefactors survive the war? It didn’t matter. He had to be pragmatic here. Overlord was his present, and seemed to have plans for him.

Teaching mnemosurgery? He wondered how far his predecessor had gotten with that. The mech he currently rode didn’t seem to have the delicacy required for it. Those servos did not look as if they could even hold a brain module without crushing it.

“I see. Well. We’ll need somewhere to teach you,” he looked out over the Red Waste, shielding his optics with his precious servo. A desolate landscape, ravaged by war that lasted millennia. What an inspiring sight.

“And subjects to teach you on, but I expect you already knew that.”

 

“I can arrange those,” Overlord said. He set Trepan down long enough to transform into his shuttle form. It was large enough to carry mecha around, though he rarely ever did that. “Get in. I’ll fill you in on the details as we fly.”

As much as he sounded the same, looked the same, even had the same tics… he wasn’t his Trepan. There was none of the old developments. Yet. As Overlord turned his sensors on this one, examining him, his curiosity was overruled by his nostalgia.

 _Perhaps they can be made anew_.

Wouldn’t it be fun, to see how it would work out this time?

 

Well. Wasn’t Overlord just all around useful? He supposed he should have some qualms about climbing into his insides, but Trepan was a small frame. He’d never been capable of flight and had, on occasion, ridden along with a flier of the bigger persuasion.

He did have to fold his slender frame together in the cockpit, fingers stroking over the dashboard. He was always interested in the internal workings of mecha, though this had nothing to do with mnemosurgery, strictly.

“Don’t take it _personally_ if I don’t remember you.”

 

Overlord’s voice came from all around him. “Why would I? It’s not your fault. I doubt you could’ve engineered his death so you could be brought online.”

He quickly took flight, angling himself away from New Iacon’s satellites. Within seconds, they were out of Cybertron’s orbit and still accelerating. Overlord aimed for the small planet the aliens had given to him in exchange for his general compliance. It’d only taken four ‘accidents’ before they learned how much he prized his privacy, and how little he cared for pain.

Trepan would be safe there.

_Overlord, we’re done today. Class dismissed._

“I think it would be easier if you just accessed my memories. You can do mnemosurgery, right? The needles aren’t for _show_?”

 

“I can assure you that they’re not,” Trepan watched the stars, and Cybertron disappeared behind them. Overlord was a fast method of travel, he had to give the behemoth that. He tapped his fingers on the dash, pleased to find them as quickly responsive as he expected them to be. His sluggish, post-stasis state was wearing off.

“You would trust me to access your memories?”

 

“I trust my judgment in letting you access my mind.” Other people were so concerned over their mental privacy, so utterly enamored with the idea of having little secrets inside, concealing all the shameful, embarrassing aspects of themselves. It was as if they believed if they hid it enough, it would go away.

Overlord cared little for that. When he hid things, it was for the tactical advantage, not because he couldn’t face something. How weak was someone, to let their own mind master them?

Trepan wasn’t stupid. He would understand, once he saw.

“What is your current status? Injuries, fuel levels, recharge?” Overlord could go on for months if he had only fuel -- or bodies that would give him theirs. Trepan… not so much.

 

“No injuries, fuel levels are above bare minimum and recharge will be necessary soon. At least, before I can offer you the use of my skills.” Trepan was intrigued, there was no denying that. Most mecha were so awfully touchy about letting anyone into their precious minds. This one? Not so much. He must have spent a lot of time with his predecessor to be so confident in Trepan’s trustworthiness.

Or, he had nothing to hide and nothing to lose. Trepan appreciated that much confidence. Not that he would draw any use out of turning Overlord into a mindless drone, but maybe his memories would give Trepan reason to feel a little more intimidated by his new companion. Or old companion.

“Will we be flying long?” He couldn’t wait to get to work. The drumming on Overlord’s dashboard intensified with Trepan’s impatience.

 

“Long enough. Why don’t you recharge now, so you can get to work upon arrival?” That typical impatience. Overlord was still intrigued by the mech, and he hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed too much. It was getting boring, this whole _undercover warmongering_ business. It would be nice to have a distraction from the tedium.

His lessons with Trepan had always been interesting.

Overlord had no internal mods that would make staying in him comfortable, however. After all, who voluntarily rode around in _Overlord_?

 

It seemed like a reasonable idea. Trepan didn’t like holding conversations whilst knowing so little about the mech around him. Literally. He stretched out his thin legs, resting them on the dashboard.

“That sounds reasonable.”

Overlord didn’t have a comfortable cockpit, but Trepan found recharge easily enough.


	2. Chapter 2

“Wake up. We’re landing.” The planet was below them, the tiny dot of Overlord’s base growing steadily larger as he flew threw the atmosphere. Flames licked around his wings as he dived low, performing a cursory check of his surroundings as he did so. No one seemed to be here.

Perfect.

 

Trepan had a crick in his shoulder-joint when he jolted awake, very unimpressed with the desolation before him now. Overlord didn’t appear to need a crew or any kind of subordinates. It was still just the two of them.

He couldn’t wait to see what had driven Overlord to his high opinion of his predecessor. The low fuel volume would have to be addressed at some point, but he was lucid enough to use his skills.

“Not much of a view.” he commented. The base looked deserted. Either the mecha here were terrified or non-existent. Complete isolation? Oh Primus, that could get incredibly dull. The only bright hope of entertainment was the subjects for teaching purposes.

“Is it just you here?” Trepan wasn’t going to have to do  _ menial work _ , was he?

 

“There are drones,” Overlord said as he waited for Trepan to unboard, “and the occasional visitor. My sponsors understand my desire for privacy, however.”

The small planet was utterly lifeless. The only feature on its surface, besides craters and flats of long-gone seas was Overlord’s sprawling base, the hangar of which they were in. “Don’t be too concerned about boredom. With how busy you will find yourself, there will be  _ very  _ little time for that.”

 

That sounded promising. And mildly threatening. Trepan dispensed with the latter notion, he already knew he was useful, valued for his commendable skill. That gave him assurance like nothing else. He never put much worth into sympathy, friendship...those were all such flimsy excuses to be meek and cling to one another. Once you took apart a mech’s mind, you knew those emotions were all just signs of weakness and insecurity, made comfortable through mutual denial. 

He preferred the dire honesty that came with mecha that simply did not care. There was no deception there.

He suspected that Overlord’s memories was a treasure trove. One just waiting for him.

“Can we get to..I assume you have some place for me to work? I don’t need a tour of the place.”

 

“You will see it once you get in my mind anyway,” Overlord knelt to one knee, offering his arm again. “We’ll go to where you’ll be doing most of your work. I don’t particularly care where you choose to sleep or eat, but I need to know where you work. It’ll make our agreements much smoother.”

It gave him a place to lurk when he needed to find Trepan, but didn’t care enough to search. The base was largely empty for the most part -- the aliens had stopped trying to send in settlers once Overlord started leaving their bodies out to dry, and Overlord occupied only a small area for his main needs. It was irritating that he was saddled here, unable to fully leave without his leash tightening. Soon, however… soon it would be gone.

 

Trepan allowed Overlord to carry him once more. This was definitely an interesting way to travel, him perched on that massive shoulder. The base was...adequate. Barren. It hardly looked Cybertronian. But it was silent and there was nothing and no one to be concerned about. It was going to be interesting to find out why Overlord lived in such isolation.

At least he had several labs at his disposal. Once he’d chosen one adequate to his needs and was deposited by Overlord, he inspected the barren room. A few diagnostic tools, a slab, an energon dispenser. That was all he had, but it would do.

He patted the slab.

“If you would be so kind.”

 

Overlord got on the berth, presenting his helm for Trepan. He was used to this -- even if it’d been a long time. There was too much to explain. Like this, Trepan could just  _ know _ .

“Don’t bother holding back. Pain doesn’t bother me.”

 

Trepan kept it in mind. He didn’t bother securing Overlord in any form. The mech seemed utterly used to this and opening up his help proved it; tiny marks, only noticable to someone who knew to look for them. Trepan...or rather, his predecessor, had left them there. Trepan ran his fingers over the microscopic grooves, all the more interested in finding out the past. His needles emerged and he set to work after exposing the brain module. He had a million years to catch up on.

 

Now, Trepan did not usually work in silence. His subjects would be unable to respond, so it was never much of a conversation, but he did get chatty when he was rifling through the core of another being. This time though, he searched for everything that involved him. Yes, he saw the end of the war. Megatron, surrendering. Megatron, bearing the Autobot badge. Megatron at Optimus Prime’s side. Trepan filed that information away for later, moving his needles gently to access a different memory bank that didn’t contain enemies or long-held grudges. Ah.

There. The Institute. As it used to look before it became a desolate ruin. Soundwave, the premier captive. Lobe, Tumbler.... _ Overlord _ .

It was strange to watch himself from the behemoth’s perspective. He looked so fragile in his grasp.

Trepan spooled the memories to a quicker pace, though he stored all of it to mull over in his own, fresh processor. The deal, the lessons, living under Overlord’s watch. Trepan felt his systems whining, heat rising through his core to keep up with the massive data influx. 

He had to give himself a break, so he flicked over to the historical part again. Overlord was a rampaging monster, a Phase Sixer, a juggernaut of destruction with a sadistic streak a thousand miles wide. Trepan would remember that too.

It took him a long, long time to filter out the memories relevant to him. Hours passed and Trepan said nothing, tinkering, moving around only slightly, engaging and disengaging his external lenses.

_ Overlord, we’re done today. Class dismissed. _

Trepan’s needles slid back into his fingers and he stumbled to sit down, having over-estimated his own energon reserves for far too long. 

He watched himself die. Or rather...heard and watched Overlord experience it. He sounded so calm. As if he knew it was coming. Did he know his backup would snap into existence, a million years later?

Still, the memories were not his own, just yet. Though they felt so much closer now, as if they had needles of their own, burrowing into his processor and finding every important node. 

“I knew I would die. I...” Trepan sat down, finally, on the slab since any other surface was lacking. That Overlord took up most of the space, he didn’t care about. He cycled a couple of vents, composing himself despite the whirling chaos in his memory banks, which finally, finally seemed to access what had been corrupted. 

Had he planted a trigger in Overlord? A transmission for any potential backup?

The grooves. Trepan leaned over Overlord again, a single needle tracing the mark made by none other than himself. A key. A remnant.

_ Ah...Clever, clever Trepan. Always with a plan. _

He was home. Back in a frame of his preferences, a fresh brain module, a plethora of fresh circuits and systems and already, back in Overlord’s grasp. As if a million years had passed in the blink of an eye. The next time he spoke, familiarity coloured his voice.

“Are you ready to pick up where we left off, Overlord?”

 

The change that came over Trepan was a welcome one. Overlord watched him as he did his work, gauging his reaction to the memories. Some would be forever lost with the death of his predecessor’s brain module, but the relevant parts of history were all there. It would take time for the memories to set, but now…

Trepan seemed a little more sure of himself around Overlord. The hesitance was gone. He didn’t trip over his designation, or move differently anymore. Trepan was back. More importantly _ , his  _ Trepan was back.

“Indeed,” Overlord said, his aloof demeanor melting away into something more personable, “There is an issue, however. Perhaps you noticed while rifling through my mind. My sponsors installed a controller in me. I want you to get it out.”

With it in him, he couldn’t even properly think about killing his sponsors. It took careful planning to set up their deaths, but overt, brutal murder wasn’t a possibility.

It annoyed him.

 

Ah, Overlord would be a weapon almost anyone would crave to control. Trepan returned to the brain module, now looking for something other than memory files. Sure enough, he found the offending thing. But removing it...would not be so simple. It wasn’t Cybertronian by any means. On further examination, during which Trepan was close enough for his nose to almost touch the module, he noticed that it had a distinct odour and pulsation to it.

“This is organic,” he sounded revolted and he was. An inhibitor of completely alien nature? That was not his area of expertise. He didn’t want to touch it, it looked...alive. A tiny organic nanite-guided inhibitor? Or maybe a techno-organic virus? 

“Your sponsors are poised to have your brain module devoured if you think about killing them.” Trepan explained, not that he thought that Overlord would appreciate it, but he needed to talk now that he was doing new and interesting work.

“I can’t just cut it out. It’ll spread to every part of your brain and infect it.” 

Maybe if he could isolate it? Trepan took a sample, just a speck on one of his needles of red goo that bubbled on his metal.

“I need a microscope mech.”

 

“I’ll bring you one.” There was a sharp jab of pain in his helm as the controller wrenched his thoughts away from the killing  _ them _ . Overlord shuddered, like a horse trying to shake off flies, as he felt  _ it  _ pulse in and on his mind. “I want it  _ gone _ . Quickly.”

He didn’t want to consider what might happen if his sponsors found a new, tighter leash. Or start becoming more watchful of his activities.

“You can’t wander around. They might kill you, if they know what you do. Then I’ll have to look for another mnemosurgeon _ again _ .”

At least Trepan seemed interested in the work offered. “Can you do it?”

 

“I’d be a terrible mnemosurgeon if I couldn’t.” Trepan set his sample aside on a slide. He wanted to study it, but he definitely needed a better resolution than his own optics could provide. He replaced Overlord’s helm after examining his module. But not before adding another groove to the inside of the heavy armor.

“I can do it. Are you sure they won’t find me here?”

He walked around the side of the slab, perching there to study Overlord’s face. He could almost say he missed it, but he’d been dead and no one missed anything then. He still looked as always, deviously confident, cruel, thick lips seemingly curved in a perpetual smirk. Same old Overlord, even millions of years later.

“Your benefactors have a knack for killing me.”

 

“This time, I won’t be letting you go on your own. That was my first error.” He took Trepan’s wrist between two fingers, studying the needles at the ends of his fingers. “And I am far more talented at killing than they are. Why else would they take me?”

He studied Trepan. Still the same, despite the time. Overlord wasn’t sure if that pleased him.

“You won’t die this time.”

_ Class dismissed _ .

“I need new needles installed.”

 

“Well I’ve done that before. Another gift from your new sponsors to have them removed?” Trepan wondered why this felt so easy. As if he’d never been gone. As if Megatron’s fusion cannon hadn’t been the last thing for him to stare into as he sent Overlord one last transmission? 

He didn’t have anything else. It didn’t strike him as odd back then, but now he had a new perspective. He’d let Overlord take him away from everything, and adjusted. He’d been a good student too, so attentive, so eager to learn. Sometimes, too eager. He’d broken countless brain modules in those fingers that now held Trepan’s thin wrist.

_ You won’t die this time. _

Trepan would make sure of that. He may not have the resources to make another backup, but he had no intention of being found, again, by Overlord’s master, and executed. There was no question in his mind that Overlord would do whatever Trepan required of him, but some part of him was growing sullen. He had  _ died _ . Even though Overlord had guarded him as precious for half a decade. He’d simply died, and Overlord had lost all progress in studying mnemosurgery. Even his needles. 

“Taken when I was an Autobot captive. Never replaced.” Trepan wasn’t happy. For a reason Overlord couldn’t discern, he was upset despite being back to life and guaranteed an interesting challenge to tackle.

“You’re upset,” he said, turning Trepan’s hand over. He let the needles in close, brushing over his face he peered into the small details of each one. Such delicate, deadly tools. Trepan was a master at what he did. It was something Overlord could respect.

He missed how it felt to sink his own needles into someone’s brain module. There was something terrible precise about that kind of torture, deeper and more violent than anything Overlord inflicted physically.

 

“I’m just contemplating how much of my work has been undone.” Trepan didn’t pull his needles back. He knew perfectly well that Overlord was fascinated by mnemosurgery and all of its useful applications. Mostly in the department of manipulation and torture, both of which were personal favourites to Trepan. Which was why it was lucky back then, when Overlord had picked him up like a souvenir at a tacky shop.

His needles brushed over derma. Overlord was very thorough in his inspection today. Trepan let him.

“But removing your inhibitor takes priority.”


	3. Chapter 3

He may not appreciate avoiding the truth, but that was definitely not what bothered him. Overlord had seemed perfectly alright the last million years. And yet, he never bothered to look for another mnemosurgeon. Did Trepan’s death have any impact on the triplechanger? And if so,  _ why _ ?

“Why did you wait so long? I saw your memories. You’ve had chances to take up any other surgeon. Well. There’s not that many. But Tu...Chromedome was right there on that planet.”

 

The needles slid down his face, over the curve of his lips, before being lifted up. Overlord traced a finger over them, feeling the tiny grooves in the thin metal. The tips were wickedly sharp.

“Why did I wait?” he echoed. He stopped his inspection of the needles. His servo drifted down the length of Trepan’s arm, skimming over the white plating and joints before ending at his neck. He lifted Trepan’s chin slowly.

“I could have taken on a different surgeon for my teacher. But it would have been a waste.”

Overlord impassively examined Trepan, turning his helm this way and that.

“I would have killed them for not being you.”

 

That was reassuring and destructive all in one. Trepan thanked himself for his foresight in installing a backup for his memories, because otherwise, he may not have been Trepan enough to satisfy Overlord either.

“Nothing but the best. That makes sense.” 

There was nothing more personal about that. Trepan was a great mnemosurgeon and a talented teacher even for this behemoth, so logic gave reason to Overlord’s casual violence.

“And if I didn’t have a backup?”

 

“It’s not about the best -- I could’ve found someone else adequate for the role.” Trepan was a brilliant mech, but sometimes, his own intelligence got in the way of seeing the obvious. For someone so good at reading the mind, he was surprisingly bad at reading  _ people _ .

“If you didn’t have a backup, I would’ve found another way. Hypotheticals matter very little -- you do have a backup, and now I have you again. Why think about  _ what-if _ ?”

He smoothed a finger over the curve of Trepan’s helm, tracing the rims of his lenses, following the length of his antenna. It’d been so  _ long  _ since he’d seen Trepan. Long enough that he forgot certain details. Pictures couldn’t do justice to the thoughtful slant of his optics, or the way he carried himself so fearlessly in front of Overlord. Pictures couldn’t help him recall how Trepan’s plating felt.

“How long will it take for you to install new needles?”

Nor could they give him Trepan’s mind again, ready for when Overlord could finally sink his own needles into it.

 

“That depends entirely on what state they’ll be in once you provide them. Or if I have to forge them.” Trepan certainly could. He knew Overlord’s fingers and just how large those needles would have to be. Yes, he was a brilliant mnemosurgeon. No, he didn’t consider that Overlord was possessive to a degree and caressing his tiny frame.

“A week at least. For calibration once they’re finished,” Trepan looked at his hand again. Overlord was right. What If’s were for the leisure of others. He had work to do.

Overlord’s lingering touch was not new, even if this frame had yet to experience it. The behemoth had always been touchy, at least with him.

 

“Begin compiling a list of everything you need,” Overlord instructed. “Then begin forging them. I will find us some practice dummies to begin working on.”

He’d have to begin upping security around here. Trepan was entirely too vulnerable alone -- that was how Megatron got him, last time. Overlord had been out, busy with a mission, and hadn’t considered what was going on at home. That mistake couldn’t be made again, even if Trepan made another backup. Perhaps he should take Trepan  _ with  _ him? It would let Overlord keep an optic on him, though safety was still questionable.

“How soon can you construct another backup?” he asked.

 

“Not for a while. I could construct a frame and modify a brain module, but my systems are still adjusting and calibrating. I suspect it’ll take another three months before they can be copied in their complete form.”

So three months of potential death to avoid. Trepan had seen memories in Overlord’s mind of his new masters, and they were unlikely to find his presence acceptable. They’d gone as far as to inhibit Overlord’s capability to think of violent reaction. But maybe, if they simply disguised his true purpose here, there might not be reason for them to kill him or try to.

“These sponsors of yours...how much do they know about Cybertronians? Would they know my function if they saw me?”

Or could they play his presence off as something as simple as companionship for Overlord?

 

“They are largely ignorant to the specifics,” Overlord said, “though they could probably infer what you do if you show them your needles. They are ignorant, but not  _ that  _ ignorant. As long as you look  _ harmless _ , they won’t think anything more of you. A pet, perhaps, or a favored companion.”

It was good they didn’t know Overlord very well. As long as they were ignorant to how he treated his actual  _ pets _ , they wouldn’t find Trepan’s presence suspicious.

“You will have to act, if necessary. Like a small, harmless, stupid… thing.”

How opposite of Trepan’s true character. It was almost funny.

Overlord stroked Trepan some more, an indulgent smirk adorning his face. 

 

“It’ll be a tough thing to act out,” Trepan retorted, wondering if Overlord had shown his benevolent new masters just how he treated his pets. If they knew, they wouldn’t believe Trepan’s act in a second. But they didn’t. If they truly didn’t...a perfect excuse.

“A favoured companion. They might take me as another advantage, a leverage to hold over you. You’ll have to pretend to care for my safety and life.”

At least he wouldn’t be the only acting out something unnatural.

 

“You think I pretend to care?” Overlord question was deceptively light and casual. He continued to stroke Trepan, though the warmth had fled the action. Overlord’s previous indulgence was gone, replaced by a calculating aura.

“What makes you think that?”

 

“Well. You’re not known for your lingering attachment.” Trepan would have to play carefully here. He knew that look. He knew that tone. Overlord was just about to embark onto a conversation that would require Trepan to flex the impressive reach of his intellect in order to predict what exactly the triplechanger wanted to hear out of him. And then hand that to Overlord in a package rigged with barbs.

“You never formed permanent bases. You didn’t assemble any crews. It’s a sign, is it not? That you don’t require anyone’s presence, or help and that you don’t value company. It’s smart. No attachment, no vulnerability through imposed social relations.”

 

_ “Overlord, we’re done today. Class dismissed.” _

“Did you hear that from my memories?” Overlord asked, after the recording ended. “Or did you have some clever backup that restored your own? It doesn’t matter. You hear it here, now.”

He leaned back on the slab, his servos leaving Trepan. He laced his fingers together. “I don’t have permanent bases. I don’t have crews. I don’t keep  _ either  _ of these because they are unneeded. They slow me down. And  _ yet _ …”

He pointed at Trepan. “You can’t fight. You can’t run. Your use ends at mnemosurgery. Theoretically, I would only need you to have your servos and your head for that. In fact, I could have  _ twisted  _ you into my needs long ago. Yet, here you are, untouched. Flex that impressive mind of yours, and tell me why you think that is.”

 

“A head and servos can’t teach you mnemosurgery. And even if you had some form of attachment to me,” Trepan wouldn’t even consider it. It was completely non-beneficial to both of them to be anything more than in a deal of convenience. 

“Maybe you find me fascinating. I am not loathed to admit you’re...an interesting mech.” To study, definitely. To be around...well it depended on Overlord’s mood. If he was bored, he was a nightmare. Trepan remembered. Although the triplechanger had never done the kind of damage he was capable of to the mnemosurgeon himself.

He was still perched on the slab next to the massive mech.

“So you think we could fool your masters into thinking me your mindless pleasure companion. Heh.”

 

“Do you doubt my ability to break you?” Overlord was back to indulgent, as quickly as the pendulum swung from one side to another. It wouldn’t take  _ much _ , you know. You can’t handle  _ real  _ pain.”

Not that Overlord felt particularly  _ inclined  _ to hurt Trepan. But it was the thought that counted.

“Everyone’s interest ends at some point. Even you can’t be endlessly entertaining, no matter how riveting you are currently. Even yours ends.”

He returned to stroking Trepan. His entire palm covered a good percentage of Trepan’s back, as he slowly caressed down Trepan’s sleek plating. “You as my pet. What a novel idea.”

An  _ interesting  _ idea. 

 

Oh, Trepan  _ knew  _ Overlord couldn’t break him. He’d seen the mech’s memories. Pain, suffering and terror, that’s what the former Phase Sixer specialised in. Torturing a mind with nothing but their worst fears, realized only in their own helm? That’s what he needed Trepan for. To teach him a cruelty that was not measured by breaking limbs and pulsing receptors. The real art of torture was to tear someone apart without breaking their plating.

“One we will make stick. Depending on how long it takes you to procure a microscope mech. Who can, of course, double up as practice for you.”

Overlord’s pet...That was a position for a lesser mind than his. Although Overlord was never as stupid as the rumor and his reputation would describe him as. Trepan had been nothing short of shocked to find out just how smart that mind was.

 

“What will happen to you, Trepan, once your use ends?”

It was a question Overlord never got to find out the answer to.

“Will you die? Will you become my pet? Will you, wonder of wonders, manage to escape? Haven’t you ever  _ wondered _ ?”

 

“I have contemplated it.” Trepan didn’t like his odds, which was why he often times had simply avoided the thought. Mnemosurgery required years and decades to teach. Coming to the end of that time brought with it all sorts of conflicts. Overlord wasn’t known to let anyone go, no matter how useful they’d been to him. Overlord liked to play with his toys until they were broken and if Trepan wasn’t his teacher, he wouldn’t last a day.

“I supposed you would have found me useful enough to dispatch me quickly. I never considered much of a future beyond your reach.”

Was there such a thing? He’d already died once under Overlord’s ‘care’. What would stop a second demise?

 

“A quick death? From me? For  _ you _ ?” Overlord chuckled mockingly. “What a funny concept. I’d thought you would want to cling to life a little more than that.”

Did Trepan not see a future for himself, beyond teaching Overlord what he knew? How morbid.

“I didn’t think you were the type to fall to  _ despair  _ so quickly. Does life after education really look so  _ bleak _ ?”

 

“I’m afraid so. I don’t play in false hopes, Overlord. I know minds, and yours in particular. A quick death is a reward to you. I’ve seen it often enough. You only have fun when you make it slow...and like you said, what use do you have for me post-education? Certainly, you’re not sentimental enough to set me free in the universe. Where would I go? Cybertron? With Megatron-sympathizers? I’d be executed before the next day. To a colony? Not a Decepticon, not a convinced Autobot. It would be a hard life that I am not adaptable to.”

Trepan wasn’t morbid. He was insanely realistic, his vision clear as crystal. He knew exactly how people would react.

“I could offer my services for minor changes. Memory wipes and alike. Then what? Work for credits? Energon rations?”

 

“So you really have nothing but  _ me _ ,” Overlord purred, pleased. “A future that seems so pitiable, that a death dealt from my servos seems more suitable. Is that the future you envisioned, Trepan? A quick, painless twist of my servo, to sever your spark from your body? Or perhaps a shot, triple-tapping your vitals.”

His touch was fickle -- turning from lingering caresses down his back, to skipping over his shoulders and smoothing down the plating there. Overlord never stayed in spot, always dancing around Trepan’s frame, always touching everything he could reach.

“But really, Trepan. I hadn’t expected your vision to be so…  _ narrow _ .”

His helm lowered, in reach of Trepan’s servos now. He stared into his optics; red into yellow.

“Haven’t you ever thought of destroying me instead? Of conquering my mind, smashing my consciousness into pieces, and ruling over what little remained? If you’re so convinced you will die, what holds you back from killing  _ me _ ?”

 

“You raise a valid point.” Trepan raised his servos, placed them on Overlord’s helm, kept them there with his needles safely retracted into his digits. He had beautiful derma, for a rampaging, cruel monster.

“Maybe I’m being bleak so you’ll never consider what I could possibly have done to your brain. Before my death. Maybe I thought ahead of more than my own death, back then. I certainly had time to prepare contingency plans. Which, incidentally, contain more than a complicated backup. Peculiar way to do it too, wouldn’t you agree? Leaving a brain module severed from a frame, leaving my memory imprint in your helm...”

Trepan stroked along the massive jaw, needle tips scraping lightly now.

“Maybe I don’t need to destroy  _ you _ , so much as guide your destruction. You’re so useful, Overlord. Maybe I just extend the time you find use for me indefinitely, and my death won’t cross your mind.”

 

His optics dimmed as he tilted his helm back, letting the needles scrape along his face. His smirk had widened now, hints of too-large, too-sharp dentae glinting beyond his lush lips. Trepan’s morbidity had raised Overlord’s temper -- but now, his words cooled it.

“So you mean to say you tampered with my mind,” Overlord murmured, “And that you’ve tweaked things  _ just enough  _ that I won’t ever  _ really  _ kill you.”

A well-fed predator, eyeing the herd. Not yet hungry enough to attack, but fully aware of what it could do.

Overlord curled a servo around Trepan’s waist, feeling the thin fragility under his palm. The hot fuel running through tubes, all the delicate circuitry that controlled his frame, the power racing through to keep it all together… one single  _ crunch _ and one of Primus’ very own wonders would be little more than greyed out scrap metal. Overlord leaned in close, ignoring the prick of needles, so that his lips hovered near Trepan’s audial.

“Are you a gambling mech, Trepan?” 

 

“Gambling is for mecha who believe in dumb coincidence and luck. I like to know the odds before I make a measured decision.” Such as tampering with Overlord’s brain module whilst teaching him exactly it ought to be done. Luck had nothing to do with it, nor did hope. Trepan didn’t take a chance on Overlord killing or not killing him. He made it so. 

Those thick lips near his audials had his antennae twitch, flicking this way and that, fully sensing the heavy friction of Overlord’s field, which was never tempered in anyone’s presence.

“I know my odds.”

Overlord wouldn’t do it. Even if Trepan’s manipulations had lessened somehow over time, the mech had an inhibitor in his brain and only a mnemosurgeon could extract it. Trepan had the audacity to smile.

“You won’t do it.”

 

If it had been anyone else, Overlord would’ve done it to spite them. Purely to spit in their face and tell them  _ no one  _ was immune to Overlord.

But this was Trepan. And he was right.

Overlord wouldn’t do it. As much pleasure as he took in putting up a show of capricious lack of control and gleeful, wholesale slaughter, Overlord  _ never  _ did something he couldn’t recover from. The best predation was a sustainable one.

He gently smoothed his servo over Trepan’s helm, brushing a finger over the trembling antennae. “Tampering or not,” he said, “ _ this  _ is why I keep you around. You’re oh… so…  _ interesting _ .”

A short incline of his helm. On anyone else, it might’ve been barely a twitch. On Overlord, it spoke of respect.

“Do your job, Trepan. I’ll do mine.”

 

“I never intended to do otherwise, Overlord.” Trepan didn’t shiver under the touch as he ought to, keeping himself still against the strong motion from Overlord’s massive servo. He was so tactile, this killing machine of his, but that wasn’t news to him. Overlord was a unique sort of fond of him and Trepan, if he grew bored, would explore further. They only had each other now. 

“You bring me what I _ need _ and I give you what you  _ want _ .”

 

“And you think to know what I want?” Death. Freedom. Those were obvious. But Trepan could only offer  _ so much _ . “How presumptuous of you. You know only the surface -- or you think you know it.”

It was a peculiar game they played. Overlord laid out all his cards before Trepan by giving his mind up, but where was the promise that he didn’t hide a few behind his back? Trepan’s confidence -- perhaps arrogance? -- could be what topples him from Overlord’s esteem. He had limited patience for these matters.

“What I want… what I  _ want _ . Tell me, Trepan, what I  _ want _ .”

 

“You don’t usually play so coy with your desires. I could say you want to kill your sponsors. I could say you want to flatten Cybertron as it stands now, fragile and easy to shatter. But that’s not all, is it? You are bored without challenge...and Megatron is no longer one.” Trepan had to be careful. Being presumptuous about Overlord’s desires could change them, and the mnemosurgeon had not done any work to correct that psychopathic diligence. 

“I’ll give you freedom to kill and I’ll give you the skills to break people in ways you have not dreamed of. And, because you’ll have to wait, I’m even here to help keep you from boredom.”

That was benevolent of Trepan, wasn’t it? He ran his optics over Overlord’s frame. It could crush him in an instant. It could also present him with something of interest to do outside of mnemosurgery.

 

“What a lovely concept,” Overlord murmured. “Keeping  _ me  _ from  _ boredom _ . Some would say it’s impossible. Or, more accurately,  _ lethal _ .”

He leaned back, stretching out his long frame on the slab, legs still dangling. “But you seem  _ assured _ . My boredom comes in many shapes and sizes. You remember our lessons, don’t you? There is only so much I can take.”

Overlord, if he put his mind to it, displayed a startling intellect. His capacity for learning, however, was critically hampered by his constant hunger for further stimulation. Once the newness of something wore out…

… he invented a  _ new  _ use for it. With Trepan, he’d refrained. He’d refrained for a long time, holding back his deadly impulses to keep whittling away his lessons. But Trepan’s promise here was different, wasn’t it?

It wasn’t an offer of education, or new lessons. It was the offer of further entertainment beyond the realm of education. Overlord’s interest, needless to say, was piqued.

“What do you recommend, to stave away the boredom?”

 

“Well. There is more that mecha do with each other than converse. Or kill. I have always wondered how physical stimulation can drive mecha to surrender their minds entirely.” Trepan would approach this like everything else. With curiosity. Overlord was versed in many things that he proudly displayed, but prowess in handling a mech without breaking? Entirely unheard of.

Trepan was willing to test his mettle and Overlord’s control.

“You have very nice lips. Objectively.” He’d certainly like to feel him against his array, where they could prove their tactile beauty.

 

“You’re not the first to suggest interface with me,” Overlord said, “nor the last. In truth… interface  _ bores  _ me.”

It’d started from curiosity. Then physical want. Ultimately, as his power grew, his peers could no longer match him. Interface became less about the physical pleasure and more about the dominance. One by one, his enemies shattered in his grip -- one way or another, and the actual  _ thrill  _ of it was gone.

“You’re too delicate for me,” Overlord told Trepan, “one slip and you’ve lost most of your lower half. How can I have fun, when I am too busy measuring myself?”

It was less denial, and more a challenge.  _ Go on. Change my mind _ .

 

“The parts of you I want to interface with don’t require measurement. They’re perfectly compatible.” Trepan let his optics wander over the blue frame once more. He didn’t know how monstrous that array could be, and he frankly, didn’t care. He had no interest in having his valve split apart at the seams by a spike that was more fit to be a torso than a tool of interfacing. 

He had seen parts of Overlord that would perfectly fine on their own. From his servos to his lips and glossa, there was plenty to work with.

“I hope you know there’s more to interfacing than just  _ fitting _ two parts together. You’d be surprised what delicate manipulation is required...you could have someone undone in ten minutes of interfacing who wouldn’t break after hours of torture.”

 

“But then where is the fun it for  _ me _ ?” Overlord, ever greedy, pointed out. “I  _ could _ . I  _ have _ . And it has  _ bored  _ me. Why interface, when pain is so much more satisfying? Why pleasure, when I can  _ hurt _ ?”

He smiled, displaying the parts that Trepan seemed to preoccupied with. “You haven’t even seen the particulars of my full frame. Are you  _ sure  _ my mouth is something so… exciting?”

 

“Moreso than you realize, I think.” Trepan hadn’t been so on board with the idea at first, but with his returned memories returned questions that he now wanted answered. He had a second life to spare. Why not experience what he may have missed the first time around.

“Or are you afraid to try? Failure is so unbecoming, I have heard. I wouldn’t know.” 

Trepan wondered which button he’d have to press this time for Overlord to comply. The games they played were gently waged wars against their egos, and each of them understood. Trepan had nothing but his mind and time. And an unquenchable desire to have Overlord’s glossa bring him several overloads. They had to be dealt with one way or another.

 

“That was clumsy of you,” Overlord chided. “Trying to attack my pride over something I rarely care about? You can do better than that.”

He enjoyed this particular match however, so he encouraged it more than he otherwise might have. Overlord opened his mouth. First were his dentae, average except for the long canines on either side. From where it usually was tucked into its housing, his glossa unfurled.

It was long, with a pointed tip, and its entire length eventually thickened out to a base that nearly filled Overlord’s mouth. He let it curl around a finger, before the razors slid out. Thin slices showed on his digit.

“Razors,” he said smugly, once his glossa was back inside, “ununtrium coated.”

 

Hm. That was slightly unexpected, and it made the thought of interfacing a little more dangerous. But no less appealing. Overlord had demonstrated his prehensile glossa and it had roused Trepan’s interest. Intensively, at that.

“Every part of you is dangerous. I shouldn’t be surprised.” Trepan reached out a servo, just barely scraping over Overlord’s jaw. Deceptively plush lips to bait the comfort of a potential partner, only to unleash even a glossa that could kill. It was almost funny. Trepan knew everything could be used against a mech, but Overlord was the embodiment of it.

“You’re right. Your pride is a poor target. But how do you know you won’t get pleasure out of what I am suggesting? You’ve never unnerved me. You’ve never seen me lose control. Wouldn’t that be  _ interesting _ ?”

 

“Interested, but also  _ curious _ . People don’t ask to be made to lose control. I doubt you will, if that is your offer. After all, if you lose control and your mind, then what is to say you still have  _ any  _ power over me?”

He scooped Trepan up, placing him on his frame. He was so small that his entire body could perch atop Overlord without discomfort. A thumb traced the outline of the glowing circle in the middle of his chest as Overlord watched him lazily.

“You never showed an inclination towards these activities before, no matter how I tried to guide you into it. Why start now?”

 

“Perhaps dying instilled some new perspective in me. And you really think I didn't have any inclination towards it before? And here I thought you were observant, Overlord.” Trepan adjusted himself to balance on that massive frame. There was enough room for him to stretch out if he wanted to. Their difference in size was almost comical, though in the interest of his current direction in conversation, there was nothing amusing about it.

“Perhaps just another thing you failed to see coming, then.”

 

“You’re entertaining,” Overlord told Trepan, humoring him, “And this conversation is entertaining. But you’ve done little to convince me. It was a good try, Trepan, and only that.”

He flicked an antenna. “I’ve mecha to find and cities to ruin. Try not to be too bored without me.”

With that, he lifted Trepan off himself and left the slab, still chuckling mockingly.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Overlord left the  _ Peaceful Destiny  _ with a massive hole torn in the side and down several mecha. Most were dead, but some were in his holding bay, unconscious and unaware. Some of them were there to help Trepan, others for  _ practice _ . Better to have many brain modules available rather than none.

He touched down on the planet, his victims dropped on the floor of the hangar unceremoniously as he transformed. Slinging most of them over his shoulder, he walked deeper into his base.

 

Trepan hated the box. That’s what he was calling the room he had to be in, every time Overlord was off-base. It was highly irritating to be confined to a space so small it wouldn’t even fit the triplechanger, but he brought his work with him and at least kept busy, or as busy as he could be without the rest of his supplies. Mainly brain modules.

He had to wait in his box until Overlord returned and gave him the all clear. They still had to be weary of those masters of Overlord’s, who had yet to discover Trepan’s presence on the base. Or so they thought. He wasn’t dead, which was all that mattered to Trepan.

 

“Trepan!” The call echoed through the base as Overlord tromped into the lab, dumping his luggage of five terrified, now-awake mecha. The smallest one -- the microscope -- looked ready to cry. All of them were scared out of their minds, now that they didn’t have their comrades for backup and no way to get away.

Overlord leaned against a wall, watching them silently. He looked from face to face, judging the one most likely to make trouble. A red one, he noted, looked more angry than scared. There was still a healthy amount of fear in there, but the kind that spurred action rather than stifle it.

He would have to be kept under control when near Trepan. Perhaps the first practice dummy?

 

Trepan climbed out of his box immediately. Not out of obedience to Overlord, but out of curiosity as to what the triplechanger had dragged to the lab. The mnemosurgeon lit up, field flaring with eager excitement at seeing the microscope mech and the rest of his subjects.

“I like it when you bring me gifts, did you know that?” He commented, inspecting the captives with sharp glances. Each of them would serve a different lesson, and he would have to decide beforehand in which order they’d go. Brain modules were not re-usable, after all.

“And you found a microscope!” Trepan planted himself before the mech, no taller than he but a thousandfold more terrified. 

 

“My generosity is endless,” Overlord said, watching with amusement as Trepan hovered over the prisoners, who didn’t seem to know whether to be more terrified of Overlord himself, or the small mech that didn’t seem terrified of Overlord and far, far too excited over their presence.

“Save him for last -- I would hate to have to find another because we accidentally broke him.”

That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The mech shrieked and threw himself at Trepan’s feet, clutching them as he begged for him to save them from Overlord. His pleas reached a fever pitch as he cried and begged pathetically.

“Don’t let him get me! Please, I don’t want to die, oh Primus,  _ please _ !”

 

Trepan tried to step back, but found his path obstructed or rather, his legs pinned. He scoffed for a moment, before deciding to take the opportunity for what it was; an entertaining moment. Sympathy was never something he could feel willingly and this was no different. He leaned down, bending over to pat over the mech’s helm.

“Oh, you are terrified, aren’t you?” his touch was kind, comforting as much as he could understand it and relay such an alien emotion.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of you. You’ll be very useful.” the soft touch became one tipped with the sharp points of his needles, scratching thin but deep grooves into the helm.

“So very, very useful. Fulfilling your function...you should be happy. Elated, even, that you can help us.”

 

Overlord leaned closer, edging into see what Trepan was doing. Mnemosurgery was always a delight to witness and Trepan was an undoubted master at it. He zoomed in, anticipating the moment the needles would sink in the ‘bot’s helm and subjugate his mind to Trepan’s will.

Mnemosurgery. Such a delicate, careful work and yet so, so satisfying. Overlord’s patience could be extended for the sake of something so casually terrifying.

“You can play with them, Trepan,” Overlord said, “as long as you don’t break them beyond use. Of course, I will  _ watch _ .” 

 

“I would expect you to. You want to learn, right?” Trepan fixated the terrified bot’s helm for a moment, sinking needles through the thin plating with ease. Scientists had no need for thick armor, after all. This one wouldn’t need too much adjustment. His fears were already realized in Overlord’s mere presence and he was easy to subjugate. Since Trepan needed him functional, he couldn’t do to much. A few choice changes here and there and the mech let go of his his legs, instead slumping his frame into cowered obedience.

Trepan drew out his needles. He didn’t mind having made puncture wounds. He only needed this microscope for one thing, then he could be put into stasis inside of his altmode.

“I would never break something of use, Overlord. Transform, Scopelense.” 

The microscope mech obeyed wordlessly, shifting through a meek little transformation to become his marginally more useful altmode. Trepan gestured for Overlord to move the pile of other subjects who were all very much alive and watching. He needed space to work.

 

It took a meaningful gesture in their direction and a brief cock from his waist-mounted guns before they were scampering to make way. Overlord strode closer, gaze fixated on Trepan’s work. The soft, quick slide of the needles… a chill ran down his spine as he remembered them entering his own mind.

That had been a…  _ unique  _ experience.

“What will you do?” he asked, watching the microscope at their feet. He still reeked of terror, but it was one tempered by his mindless need to obey the mnemosurgeon before him.

 

“Analyze that organic matter in your helm, I’d say.” Trepan was satisfied with his work. It didn’t need much, the mech’s mind had already been in a state of panic and terror and those broke so very easily. Too boring and easy, really, but the rest of the mecha weren’t much different. This was going to be a dull lesson if they didn’t lose their fear of Overlord brutalizing them.

“Or rather, have him do it,” he gestured to the prone mech, “and study what his brain module makes of it. Of course, we don’t plan for him to leave, so there’s no need to wipe as we go. Which I would usually, if I wanted to keep a matter private.” Trepan found it all too easy to explain to Overlord exactly how it worked, step by step. The theory was always much easier than the practice.

 

Just like that, as if the last million years hadn’t happened, they were back into their usual role as student and teacher. Overlord listened, rapt, as his internal recorder took notes. It all made sense, though he suspected the actual working of it to be much harder than Trepan made it seem.

“Can you read technical information off a brain module?” he asked, “or will you be using him as a translator?”

 

“In his case, yes. Actually, most scientists are capable of acting as an educational bridge between the subject and the surgeon,” Trepan unearthed the sample, sliding it into the open cradle offered by the microscope mech. 

“You can’t acquire the skill to read certain things, but you can turn mecha into tools,” he stepped closer, positioning one hand over a panel on Scopelense that hid his brain module, the other glancing through the actual lense though he couldn’t make sense of any of the data there. This time, he slid the panel aside so Overlord could see the brain module and just where Trepan made his insertions. 

“Like I thought. Techno-organic virus...tough to remove without knowing the exact composition.”

 

Trepan’s smaller hands made short work of the mech’s helm. Someone this small, however, would be a challenge for Overlord. His fingers were thick, making positioning the needles difficult. Longer needles helped, but reduced his ability to control as effectively. There was a reason mnemosurgeons were on the thin side.

“Does it look like it was originally techno-organic, or fused together?” It would narrow down the species responsible for the technology in his helm. And from there, Overlord could track down the key needed to get rid of it permanently.

 

“It looks fused, and parasitic. Hm...let’s see what Scopelense knows about that,” Trepan twisted his needles slightly and found his answers with playful ease. He was truly great at his purpose and his profession and Overlord could not have chosen anyone better for the position of his teacher.

“That is interesting. We could try a substitution. All we need is a living brain module...and possibly a regular surgeon, but that’s going to be harder to find.” Trepan continued to find information in Scopelense, who grew still and silent, not even letting his internal components whir in case they displeased Trepan.

“I don’t suppose you grabbed a medic, did you?” 

 

“Are any of you medics?” he directed his question at the shivering pile in the opposing corner of the room.

No one raised their hand.

“The medic walks out alive.”

Still nothing.

“No medics,” Overlord said dryly. “You didn’t specify the exact kind of mecha you needed besides a microscope.”

He glanced at Trepan’s hands again. “Won’t they know if the controller is in someone else’s helm?”

 

“That’s what the medic would be necessary for. I can prepare the other brain module to mimic yours. This virus isn’t Cybertronian. It isn’t connected to your specific CNA, or your EM-field. In other words, it can’t identify you by anything but your brain module activity. And that,” Trepan flicked his antenna, “I can replicate. It’s the transfer that concerns me. My servos don’t have the necessary tools for it.”

If they did manage this operation, it would end most likely in the virus spreading in the fake Overlord brain module, destroying completely and with any luck, the interest of his masters.

“I need steadier servos. Mine are perfect for their task, but not for transplants and laser cutting.”

 

“So we need a medic for this. One who can do surgery.” The list of mecha who could actually do that kind of precise working was… rather low. Overlord frowned. “You’re certainly not making this easy.”

Decepticon medics rarely survived the war. There was a reason Autobot medics were so renowned, and it wasn’t because they beat out the competition. Decepticon medics died, simple. Overlord had killed more than a few unlucky ones to be near when he woke out of a mid-battle stasis. There was an inherent danger in repairing violent, unstable warmachines more known for their kill count than their restraint.

“Does it have to be a mechanism? Or will anyone do?”

 

“As long as they have surgical tools in their servos and can use them.” Trepan shrugged, wondering now where Overlord had found this pile of would-be subjects. On an Autobot ship? On a remote colony? Some kind of refugee transport?

“Where did you get all of them from? A settlement or a ship? Those usually come with medics.”

 

“From Optimus Prime’s ship,” he said, edging closer to Scopelense. The mech seemed to sense his approach and looked torn between running away and obeying the commands Trepan had installed. Overlord took another step, and Scopelense twitched.

“They had some medics onboard, but I hadn’t had time to grab them. Tarn got in the way. Maybe I can find someone who has a medic good enough for this. That’ll take time. A Neutral outpost could provide answers…”

 

“Good. I can examine all of our subjects,” Trepan pulled his needles out of Scopelense, having no further need of his altmode. For all he cared, Overlord could eat the mech for sustenance.

“One of them needs to have a relatively compatible brain module frequency. I should come with you. To this outpost.”

Trepan wouldn’t mind a little travel. The base got dull fast, there was only so much to entertain himself with. And he had missed going somewhere in Overlord’s company. He’d always enjoyed the radius of terror, which is what he called the distance everyone backed up as soon as they caught sight of the triplechanger.

 

“You must stay close,” Overlord warned, “And do everything where I can see you. Unless you want to die again -- if so, be my guest and wander as you please.”

He plotted a course towards an outpost. It was the closest one to this planet. Not the largest one around, but large enough to hold a few medics aboard. At least one should be good enough to service Overlord. If not, he’d destroy the place and move on. His sponsors actively encouraged any activity that ruined mechanical expansion anyway.

“Get ready, Trepan. We’ll leave today. Get one of the mecha to come, I’ll need a snack.”

There was pitched scream as Overlord plucked Scopelense off the ground. He eyed him, turning him over this way and that, before deciding on his favorite part. The optics.

His glossa curled out as he brought his mouth close, cutting through the derma and plucking the glass and metal out with his denta. Energon dripped down the corners of his lips. He repeated the same with the other side, as Scopelense’s screams turned into frantic gibberish. He was struggling, but Overlord’s grip was iron.

It was all silenced when Overlord’s jaw fell open -- wider and longer than it should have, black seams parting his mouth until it gaped -- and closed around Scopelense’s head with a muffled but audible  _ crunch _ . The struggling body quivered, before falling limp, screams ending abruptly.

Tubes popped, cables groaned, and metal  _ screeched _ as Overlord pulled the body away deliberately. The remainder hung out of his lips loosely, dripping with fluid, as Overlord chewed. Pieces of jagged metal fell out. Droplets of energon stained his chest.

Slowly, he swallowed, optics never leaving Trepan’s.

“Anyone who disobeys Trepan,” he said softly, “will suffer that.”

There was no sound, but Overlord, assured, left anyway.

Trepan felt a distinct cooling in his interest about interfacing with Overlord’s mouth, but his curiosity grew from average to morbid in an instant. He knew Overlord enjoyed the macabre, but he had turned himself further and further into a weapon of such bizarre qualities that left Trepan wondering which parts had been changed to accommodate the mad vision.

“Do I have any volunteers? Anyone left here will be put into stasis. So no one gets any clever ideas. I may choose you to be the last subjects if you come along and prove useful now.”

The horrified mecha could only obey the tiny mnemosurgeon. Their fate otherwise would just be too horrible to consider. No one deserved a death like Scopelense’s.


	5. Chapter 5

“There’s a bar. I could do with some triple distilled engex.” Trepan perched on his usual seat, Overlord’s shoulder affording him a perfect view of the street and the establishments lining their path. The crowd, not entirely Cybertronian but dominated by former Decepticons and neutral refugees, scattered before Overlord’s path, clearing it whenever he turned.

“Oh, that place may have all the right supplies I need for your needles.” Trepan was enjoying the bubble, as well as being out in the semblance of a regular existence. It could make him forget about his million-year wait.

 

“The bar first,” Overlord decided. He no longer even noticed the way they scrambled out of his way -- it was expected of everywhere he went. Unless he wanted to put on a show, Overlord rarely even glanced down at the nobodies around his legs. The only important individuals were them.

The bar was curiously empty when they strode in. It wasn’t the empty of a bar recently deserted, but one that’d been cleared out long ago. Even Overlord’s stunted social ability could pick out the unnatural cues.

In a booth, far away from the entrance and prying eyes, was a couple. Sensors picked out low conversation, something warm between them -- energon, most likely -- but it was the helm that leaned out of the booth that confirmed his suspicion.

“Tarn,” Overlord said, pleasantly surprised.  _ Now this trip might even be fun. _

“Overlord,” Tarn snarled, going from shocked to murderous in less than a second.

 

Pharma wanted to growl. Or scream. Or maybe try out his new surgical saw. Overlord? In a place like this? He’d kind of expected the mech to be scrapped or at least captured by the Prime had his copious numbers of soldiers. But no, the rampaging monster just happened to head to the very same outpost that the DJD had arrived at not long ago. Procuring a ship had not been all that difficult and Pharma had rejoiced when Tarn invited him to stroll into the outpost’s center for some refreshments whilst the terrible trio got the ship into order. 

It had been a sweet sort of isolation and solitude when every Cybertronian being cowered and fled and the bartender had just barely resisted powering up some heavy cannons and served them instead.

But of course, nothing good ever lasted for him. Overlord had to stroll into this  exact bar at this exact moment in time.

The medijet stood up slowly, following Tarn with some hesitation, hidden behind the bulk of his frame. Almost.

“...Is that Pharma?” Trepan didn’t have much care for the purple tank who stood a full helm shorter than Overlord. Clearly, some old tensions existed here. If Trepan really cared, he would have searched his copies of Overlord’s memories, but why should he? Overlord could crush this mech into paste and be done with it.

What was interesting about all of this was the jet half-hidden behind the other bulky Decepticon. Pharma’s elegant frame was unforgettable and Trepan had once even shared more than a few words with the surgeon.

Medic. Surgeon. Perfect! Trepan patted Overlord’s helm.

“We need that medic. He’s exactly what we want.”

Pharma had not heard his designation being called, but he did see a spindly frame cling to Overlord that wasn’t there before.

 

Trepan hadn’t exactly tried to keep his voice down. Tarn heard what he said and if anything, grew angrier. His field had bloomed to fill the entire room, roiling with absolute loathing for the mech before them.

“The last we met,” Tarn said, his icy tone contrasted with his fury, “you ripped half my leg off. The last time we met, I was injured.”

He hefted his arm, now heavy with his fusion cannons again. His voice was back at full power, everything about him was ready. Tarn narrowed his optics as he took aim. “This time is  _ different _ .”

Overlord, for his part, only looked amused. He picked Trepan off his shoulder, setting him down on the bar. Spreading his hands, he gave Tarn a bow so short it was mocking.

“You’re welcome to  _ try _ .”

The first shot was shrugged off. Overlord charged Tarn, and the two went crashing backwards.

 

Pharma had side-stepped the inevitable, crossing over to the bar instead of being any more involved with this fight. Tarn could hold his own, and there was nothing the medic could do to assist his commander and berthmate. Instead, he inspected Overlord’s companion, only to be utterly surprised to recognize him. 

“Trepan? You’re alive?”

Pharma remembered his brief stay working for the institute well, and Trepan had been his point of access into the more interesting aspects there. Pharma wouldn’t call him a friend, but he was definitely an acquaintance. And definitely had been on some casualty report or other.

Trepan mixed himself a drink, sitting conveniently on the bar with a perfect view of the fight. He certainly didn’t have to worry about his companion. He let his optics wander over Pharma, slowly coming to a stop on his badge. That gleamed like...oh, well then.

“That’s new. Never really figured you dumb enough to want to be a Decepticon, Pharma.”

The medic bristled, but busied himself with a new drink too. His own had gone flying when the two behemoths clashed.

“Yes well. Circumstances change. Something tells me you didn’t go missing from the Institute under mysterious accidents either.”

“Of course not. I made a new arrangement. Took a new, interesting perspective on things.”

“You still try to sound as if you’re in control of everything. Not changed much, have you Trepan?”

“I try. I spent some time dead. I can’t recommend it.”

Pharma snorted and turned to lean against the countertop, watching the fight with a twinge of displeasure. He just _ finished  _ fixing Tarn properly and entirely…

 

While Pharma and Trepan shared an entirely civil conversation, Tarn and Overlord were busy trying to rip each other wide open. There was no time constraint, so the two of them had no worries about anything except murdering each other. Overlord dug his fingers into Tarn’s mask, trying to rip it off, while Tarn jammed a hand under the outer ununtrium plating, looking to rip out the softer areas. Then they both rolled, smashing the bar’s decor as Tarn kicked Overlord in the face with a sharp hiss.

“Off me!”

Overlord stumbled back, giving Tarn the time he needed to regain his feet. They both circled each other, wary, before diving into another harsh grappling match.

Neither of them thought about using their alts. Besides the space constraints -- which didn’t really matter for  _ them _ \-- there were other people in the bar who were  _ less  _ durable.

Tarn aimed for Overlord’s face. His derma was as impenetrable as the rest of him, but his intake was as vulnerable as any other part. He was reaching in, positioning himself so he could rip Overlord’s helm in half starting with his jaw, when Overlord reached around, grabbing one of the guns on his back, and tore it off.

Tarn suppressed the howl of pain, before he turned that into a growl that brimmed with his power. Overlord spasmed, grip weakening, as his spark convulsed in his chest.

Tarn used the opening to back away, checking himself. Overlord had fallen to one knee, holding his chest, but he looked up. There was a smile on his face, mocking.

“Going  _ soft _ , Tarn?”

“I don’t have time for you,” Tarn spat, trying to circle around to where Trepan and Pharma were at the bar.

“Oh?” Overlord raised an arm, aiming at Pharma, “That’s yours?”

Tarn froze, and Overlord’s smile widened. “My, my, what have you been up to,  _ Tarn _ ?”

 

The fight seemed to have come to some sort of pause, directing the attention of both mecha at the bar to their bulky companions. Pharma scoffed. Again? He took a deeper sip, field frizzing with malcontent. Tarn had some gall, throwing himself into a fight after the last repairs had been so painstaking. And Overlord! Pharma would love to be sawing him apart on a slab. That he might have such an opportunity, Trepan did not tell him, although he did notice the protective spike in his field.

Interesting. Trepan had always figured Pharma smarter than to be emotionally attached to anything or anyone, but apparently, even esteemed mecha fell down into stupidity. Trepan sipped his drink.

“So you’re his pet medic?”

“Why does everyone assume I am not here by choice?” Pharma snapped. It was Trepan’s turn to chuckle.

“What else? A deal?  _ Love _ ? I didn’t think you’d sink so low.”

Trepan was great at reading people. But he was not great at social situations. Pharma’s field snapped inward, no longer friendly, and there was something feral in his optics.

“Don’t talk to _ me  _ about low points after riding in on Overlord, Trepan.”

 

“Don’t you dare,” Tarn warned.

“Dare  _ what _ ? Shoot him? I could.”

“You’ll take the one next to him out too. You’re not precise enough to hit only Pharma.”

“Oh? You’re on  _ name  _ basis with him? What’s going on, Tarn? This whole  _ affair _ ,” Overlord gestured around them with his free arm, “the drinks, the bar, the  _ isolation _ … did we interrupt a  _ date _ ?”

Tarn clenched his fists. His entire frame was spoiling for another fight, almost trembling from how he forced himself back. Overlord took his silence as confirmation.

“Tarn, Tarn, Tarn… you’ve really been going  _ downhill _ , haven’t you? First the betrayal, then the loss of your precious team, and now  _ this _ . What next? Little Decepticon feet going pitter-patter?”

Tarn’s temper snapped.

He crossed the distance with surprising speed, taking Overlord off-guard, and wrenched his aim off. Overlord didn’t even shoot, because Tarn  _ had  _ been right with his earlier observation, and used the momentum to roll onto his back and kick Tarn into the bar, just a little to the left of the two arguing mecha. Tarn grabbed his ankle unexpectedly, dragging Overlord with him.

 

The two massive mecha crashing into the bar certainly put a stop to Trepan and Pharma’s impending argument, the mnemosurgeon having to shuffle over or risk falling into the new, gaping hole.

“What are you doing here, Trepan? Clearly, you weren’t tracking us.”

“It’s _ us  _ now, is it Pharma?”

“Keep it up and I’ll amputate your servos. You did always have a big mouth for so flimsy a frame.” Pharma’s mood grew more sour by the instant, which meant Trepan was pushing his buttons. Oh so easy.

“We were looking for something. You, actually. A medic. A surgeon. We have a little proposition. I’m sure you’d love to help out, hm? You’ve always claimed to be the best. And this is a challenge.”

Trepan knew exactly how vain Pharma was, and this wasn’t hard. Trepan suspected that convincing Tarn to relinquish his ‘date’ would be a harder discussion.

 

A clawed hand thrust out of the hole, grabbing Trepan by a leg. Tarn yanked him off his seat, holding him up into the air with the barrel of his cannon pressed to his thin chest. Overlord clambered out of the hole after him, expression darkening when he saw the situation.

“I’ll kill him,” Tarn hissed, “if you don’t walk out of here and  _ leave _ .”

“Go ahead,” Overlord dared.

“You care about him,” Tarn continued, “he’s alive, he’s walking, he’s  _ functional _ . You can talk about me and Pharma, but you  _ care _ . Walk out of here, Overlord, and I won’t shoot the only thing you care about.”

 

Trepan knew there was no struggling. He did have a fusion cannon pressed to his chest. One flicker of disinterest from Overlord would spell his end. He kept himself composed, even if this time, his spark leapt into overdrive. He had no backup yet! He couldn’t afford to die right now, he had things to do, a project to finish, nevermind that he didn’t actually want to die. 

But fear was fuel to brutes like Tarn and Overlord and Trepan could only hope that Overlord wouldn’t abandon him now.

“Don’t mistake convenience for _ care. _ ” He commented. He could only talk his way out now, so he looked to Pharma, who was watching with a sort of satisfaction that was viciously close to pride for Tarn’s ruthless threat.

“You’re wasting your time negotiating. Go ahead and shoot me.”

 

“Shut up.” Tarn shook him, hard. Wasn’t it annoying when hostages thought they could speak?

He looked back at Overlord, who was still watching them. His whole body was unreadable, seemingly trying to decide on something. Tarn waited, before speaking up again.

“Don’t tell me he’s just  _ useful  _ and  _ convenient _ ,” Tarn said, his smirk audible, “because if that’s all he was, then you would’ve walked out. You wouldn’t have brought him here, or let him touch you.”

Overlord and Tarn knew each other. Longer than they even knew Trepan and Pharma respectively. Their… relationship was one built on mutual hatred and a constant awareness that one day, they would fight to the death. In such a relationship, it was always smart to make sure they knew each other. They were always separated by battlefields, even as unwilling comrades, but there was very little that actually separated their natures.

“I can kill you,” Overlord pointed out. He glanced at the medic at the bar. “Or  _ him _ .”

“A permanent fight, once and for all?” Tarn nudged Trepan with his gun.

Overlord carefully didn’t look at him. “You presume --”

“I presume  _ nothing _ ,” Tarn snarled, shaking Trepan. “You’ve plans. I’ve my own. Stand down… and I will too.”

Overlord glanced at him, surprised. “You never have.”

“Circumstances change.”

Overlord’s optics flicked to Pharma. “Trepan can be replaced.”

“You never would. You haven’t.”

And there lie the undeniable truth they both knew.  _ Expendable doesn’t mean replaceable. _

Overlord looked irritated now. Genuinely, coldly irritated. His usual air of distant mockery was gone, replaced by a cold stare. “I  _ will  _ kill you, Tarn,” he said, sneering. “I’ll make it extra special, just for  _ you _ .”

“I promise the same.” Tarn matched Overlord’s stare with a red glower of his own. “But not today.”

Overlord’s guns went to resting position. “... not today.”

Tarn let Trepan go. He pushed Trepan forward, while in the same motion, grabbed Pharma’s wrist to pull him away from the bar and behind Tarn.

 

Trepan didn’t scamper, but he did put some distance between himself and Tarn. Fusion cannons should never be pressed so closely to his frame, that was certain. Maybe he just should have stayed close to Overlord, though in the fight, that would have been tough.

“What about Pharma?” Trepan gestured over to the medic when he made it to the side of the triplechanger, where he continued to look ridiculously small and frail. Even Pharma outsized him easily.

“We need him. Just for a while.”

Pharma couldn’t quite contain the short pulse of concern as he viewed the new damage done to Tarn. It irked him immensely to know Overlord had undone his hard work and caused the tankformer that Pharma considered his damage. 

 

“Pharma,” Tarn didn’t turn his attention away from the brooding Phase Sixer in front of them, “what does he want from you?”

Protectiveness rolled off him in waves as Tarn tensed, ready to spring into the fray if Overlord wanted this to become violent despite their earlier agreement. He was slowly edging them back, trying to push Pharma away. Tarn didn’t appreciate light-fingered mecha trying to take something of his, even temporarily.

 

“He didn’t get around to telling me. But my good sense tells me that there might be medical issue that needs addressing. And since Trepan seems completely healthy...” Pharma let his gaze tick over Overlord. The mech was terrifyingly massive and didn’t look as if he needed anything replaced...Pharma stepped closer to Tarn, entirely pleased to feel his field layer itself over him. A protective Tarn made for a happy carrier Pharma.

 

Trepan touched Overlord’s leg, just lightly. Well, he could have punched it with all his might and it wouldn’t have mattered.

“He’s carrying.”

 

“Carrying what?” Overlord asked, giving Trepan a glance. It was something these scientists types did. They made brief, short statements to the room then waited as if people were actually meant to get it. Overlord wasn’t by any means stupid, but his education -- gladiator then soldier then worldkiller -- was  _ very  _ different from what other people got.

He looked back at Tarn. “We want your medic for a surgery. Temporary, you can have him back later. Unharmed, even.”

“Pharma isn’t for rent,” Tarn said flatly.

 

Trepan rolled his optics. Warframes and their poor education, he probably had no idea even if Trepan spelled it all out. He’d have to anyway. 

“He’s carrying offspring.” Trepan’s smirk was cruel and Pharma bristled all the way across the room, immediately brimming with untapered aggression. 

 

“That’s none of your concern.” the jet hissed, servo transforming with the angry rev of a saw that could easily, if in reach, slice Trepan in half. Oh, how Pharma wished that big behemoth wasn’t there. Anyone who identified his fragile state so easily was a threat. And Pharma didn’t like his sparkling threatened, not one bit.

 

Overlord turned new optics on the medic, before looking at Tarn. “I see that the pitter patters will be coming sooner than I thought.”

Tarn growled at Overlord’s chortle. His field wrapped around Pharma, aggressively protective and beginning to forget the fledgling truce they made.

Overlord didn’t miss the protective huddle Tarn and Pharma were getting into. He scoffed, disdainful. “I won’t snuff out your disgusting little experiment,” he said, leaving out the  _ yet, if I get bored _ , “I want Pharma to perform a surgery.”

“You’ve yet to convince us.”

“Firepower,” Overlord retorted. “And the fact that you have a lot of enemies, Tarn. What might they do if they learn about your spawn? I imagine it won’t be friendly.”

 

Trepan had contributed a new weapon in their arsenal and it had taken him no effort at all. He wanted to climb back to Overlord’s shoulder, but unlike the two foolish mecha across the room, he wouldn’t be showing such dependency. The way they both bristled with aggression just confirmed it all to be true and for Tarn to be the proud sire of whatever miscreants were orbiting Pharma’s spark.

Pharma stiffened. This was bad. This was exactly why he should just have stayed on the ship, out of sight, out of harm’s way. Now Overlord knew he had an edge on Tarn. Guilt, fear and revulsion made for an interesting mixture. Pharma knew that spark-deep hatred of Overlord had just seeped into him. Surgery? A lot could go wrong in a surgery.

“Tarn...” Maybe, they needed to consider it.

 

Trepan tapped Overlord’s arm again.

“And I’ll supervise him personally. Wouldn’t want him to accidentally try and harm you in the delicate process.”

With his needles in Pharma’s brain module, Trepan would love to see the medic try and sabotage the surgery. 

 

“What is the surgery?” Tarn asked, reluctant. This was all becoming a mess. Tesarus, Vos, and Helex had no way of knowing what was happening unless they managed to catch it from the fleeing mecha. Unlikely, since they were also getting a wide berth.

So that left the only option.

“What do you want from him?”

“His skills as a surgeon, that is all,” Overlord smiled, “a surgery to remove something. After that, you’re free to go.” 

 

Pharma wanted to fly away. Surely, the tank was too slow to catch him. But leaving Tarn behind to Overlord’s rampage? It didn’t sit well with him. Pharma wanted to chide himself for it, blame his carrying protocols for caring for Tarn’s safety, but it simply wasn’t accurate anymore. There was more between them and there had been for a while, and here was the universe’s retribution for him relaxing his guard and allowing attachment to form.

 

“A simple extraction, is all. I need you to facilitate a module transfer without actually transferring the module. You know how to imitate activity?” Trepan asked, idly keeping his hand on Overlord. Just in case Tarn tried grabbing him again, he wanted to be close to the warframe he trusted.

 

“Of course I do!” Pharma snapped. He’d done a four-way pump transplant on a conscious patient with himself as a donor. This was nothing in comparison. This was ridiculously below the level of threat Overlord was implying.

But it was also something Trepan with his highly specialised servos could never do. Pharma had a nasty smirk on his faceplate.

“Inadequate again, Trepan?”

“Hardly. I’ll be monitoring you closely, Pharma, in case you get any funny ideas.” Trepan showed Pharma is other hand, his beautiful needles, making sure his implication was understood.

Pharma’s turbine whined and his winglets flared out.

 

Tarn and Overlord watched the exchange, bemused and amused respectively. Tarn placed a hand on Pharma’s shoulder, squeezing it in unspoken support. He didn’t like the situation, nor did he like the implications of Trepan’s words.

“Something’s wrong with him,” Tarn challenged. “You can’t fix it on your own, which is why you’re so intent on recruiting Pharma for it. Explain everything -- why, how,  _ what _ \-- and then we’ll consider it.”

Overlord shifted his weight from one to the other. “A controller virus,” he answered, “designed by the Galactic Council, to turn me into a tool. They want me to weaken Cybertron, so they can start a lightning war. I want it out.”

“Organics,” Tarn spat, disgusted. Regardless of faction ties and loyalties, all Cybertronian -- unless you were Optimus Prime and therefore incapable of hate -- held varying level of dislike for organics. It was just  _ typical  _ of them to use a mechanism for their own ends.

“What will you do after it’s removed?”

“Who knows?” Overlord shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe I will target Megatron again. Maybe I will conquer some far away galaxy and rule it as a god-king.”

“You already did that. It never lasts.”

“You think I’m going to target you?”

“I  _ know  _ you will. If there was a thing you never could stay away from, it was a challenge.”

“And you think you’re a challenge to me?”

Tarn’s snort answered that. Overlord tilted his helm, thoughtful.

“You don’t want to fight.”

Tarn looked surprised only for a moment. He scowled again, shifting his cannon arm. “Did your IQ fall with your self-control?”

“No, no, I can tell. You wouldn’t be talking with me, if you were like you were back before. You wouldn’t be sitting in a bar, on a Neutral outpost, having  _ drinks  _ with your medic. The Tarn I knew would’ve exterminated this place to the last mech, stolen a fleet of ships, then went after Megatron half-cocked.  _ Again _ .”

Tarn looked like he wanted to refute that, but Overlord cut him off before he could speak.

“Look like you have some  _ purpose _ now. Beyond your  _ Cause _ .” Overlord’s gaze dropped down to the medic behind Tarn, “I never pinned you for a family figure.”

“My purpose is still the Cause,” Tarn snapped, “you have no room to talk, not when everything you do is because you have nothing.”

Overlord smirked. It was a cruel thing, hollow of any positive emotion. Overlord was only happy when he had a challenge, and even those had been taken away from him. “I won’t kill you yet,” Overlord said, “not now, not in even in this century. You’re no fun when you have nothing, Tarn, because you’re always ready to die. But one day you will. And I will be back, and I will be there to take it all from you and make you watch it burn down around you.”

There was a long silence, tense and angry.

Tarn clenched his fist, then relaxed it forcibly.

“Fix him,” Tarn said, so soft only Pharma could catch it. “Remove that controller.”

 

Pharma very much wanted to object. From what he heard out of Overlord’s words, there would not be any kind of longer truce. The mech even promised to destroy everything Tarn held dear enough to establish around him. That didn’t sound like a deal they should be taking. In fact, it would probably come in handy to have Overlord controlled by someone else...but then again. Organics. Notoriously despicable, untrustworthy and cowardly organics. Organics could only use Overlord for a purpose so terrible it may be preferential to have him set free.

But the needles? Trepan wouldn’t allow him to complete the surgery without direct supervision. Something about that was terribly obvious Trepan’s show of care towards the Phase Sixer. Pharma almost pitied the mnemosurgeon for choosing to hitch his wagon to the calamity that was Overlord. And so protectively too. The medic wondered what Trepan got out of it.

He bristled at the thought of having Trepan in his brain module though. It wouldn’t do. He didn’t want his memories glanced at. There was too much he knew that needed to stay strictly private.

“I’m not fixing a brain module with your needles in mine, Trepan.”

No matter what Tarn and Overlord agreed on, Pharma had boundaries. Trepan scoffed. He wasn’t going to let the medic freely work another killswitch into Overlord’s brain or something alike.

“And let you have free access to do whatever you like? I don’t think so, Pharma.”

 

“Another safety measure, then,” Tarn suggested. “Pharma works on Overlord, while Trepan keeps his needles ready, but not inside him brain module. I will be watching it all. If you do anything to Pharma, rest assured Trepan that I will show you everything I know of torture.”

It was the kind of deal made between dishonorable wretches of society -- with enough backups and contingencies to make someone cross-eyed. Trust was for other people.

“It’s that, or you find another medic. You won’t find one of Pharma’s caliber but no one will notice if Overlord’s brain module is slower than normal.”

 

It wasn’t perfect, but it was as close to a deal as they were going to get. Trepan ignored how Pharma preened under Tarn’s praise. It roiled his tanks to see blatant affection in mecha and these two were not subtle about it. Fools. It would all burn around them, they could watch each other die. Trepan would even find it amusing, if only because Pharma was being haughty and obstinate about helping.

His hand still on Overlord’s leg, the mnemosurgeon shrugged, looking up at his partner/benefactor. He could live with hovering over Pharma and observing his every move. It was Overlord’s brain under threat, so the decision rested with him.

“Pharma is uniquely qualified and motivated.” 

Pharma was also uniquely offended by all of this. His servo had come back to regular form. He ached to fly away, right now. He didn’t want to fix Overlord in an extremely delicate surgery, but he was certain he could.

 

“Acceptable,” Overlord said simply. “What do you need for the procedure?” He would soon be free. Free to fly where he pleased, to kill who he pleased. He already knew who was at the top of his list.

“How quickly can you have it done?”

 

“As soon as we have a sterile work environment and a slab big enough to fit him.” Pharma was all business now. He needed a medibay for the safest procedure. Working out in the open held too many risk factors, and their best bet would probably be to use the medibay of their new ship.

“I need to calibrate my servos for brain module surgery. It’ll take at least three hours. Two more for prep, three for the surgery, two for the after-care.”

Overlord and Tarn would have to tolerate each other’s presence for ten hours. Pharma didn’t know what impending doom he had just ordered into their lives.

 

“Does he  _ need  _ aftercare?” was Tarn’s first question. “Is it  _ absolutely  _ essential?”

In Tarn’s opinion, they could do the surgery here and now and kick Overlord to the curb as soon as Pharma’s hands delivered the last necessary slice. Overlord sent him a sour glance, but didn’t protest. Psh. Aftercare was for  _ normies. _

“How much can you cut down the surgery time? Overlord doesn’t need safety backups.”

 

Pharma scoffed at the idea of botching a surgery for the sake of time. Warframes. They had no concept of the delicacy of his work, or how important safety backups were.

“There’s not much I can skip. Maybe the functional isolation...but that could cause massive trauma to the ventral energon line. No I can’t do that, that’s basically asking me to take a pike to his brain.” Pharma could despair just thinking of how stupid it would be to skip steps. There were things in his medical code that he had suspended out of necessity, but he couldn’t suppress it all.

“I can cut out maybe two hours, and that’s risky. I absolutely can’t skip aftercare, if he wants to be capable of transformation and speech at the end of this. If they came all this way to find a medic of my caliber, they better damn well let me do my work the best I can.”

Pride would be his downfall, Pharma knew it. 

 

“Loss of speech would be a service to those around him,” Tarn said, completely serious.

Overlord rolled his optics. “Don’t be a dramatic, Tarn. Your medic wants to do his job  _ correctly _ , which is something you could take a note from. Stop being a hindrance for once and  _ shut up _ .”

Tarn twitched. He was already beginning to regret his decision. “Do we have to do it on our ship?” he asked Pharma, not pleased. “There has to be a place suitable on this station. He’ll contaminate the medibay with something.”

_ I am not touching a slab Overlord laid on. _

 

Pharma didn’t want to stretch this out longer than it had to be. Overlord and Tarn were insufferable around each other, he was beginning to understand that. And he needed ten more hours? Perhaps they could put Overlord into stasis and he could placate Tarn’s mood with some very sincere interfacing afterwards.

“It’ll take longer to find somewhere suitable if we don’t just use the medibay,” Pharma flared his field, annoyed already by the infantile bickering.

“I’ll _wash_ the slab, Tarn. It’s sterilized after every procedure _._ ”

And every time they used it as an impromptu berth.

 

Tarn resisted the retort. It was childish, it was dumb, it did not belong in this conversation.

“He’ll have touched it,” he still muttered, low.

Judging by Overlord’s grin, he heard it anyway. “Thank you,  _ Pharma _ ,” he leered, “for your generous donation of your medibay for my surgery. I see you’re the one meant to makeup for Tarn’s…  _ failings _ .”

Tarn regretted this day.

Overlord slunk forward, oddly graceful despite his bulk, and offered Pharma his hand. “Lead the way, doctor,” he said, smiling disarmingly. It didn’t negate the cold distance in his optics, but it was a far cry from the previous smirk.

Pharma didn’t take Overlord’s hand. He’d never risk his servos to the touch of such a behemoth, especially not one that already threatened to shoot him twice and vowed to kill the only mech Pharma had ever grown attached to. Instead, the medic flicked his wings and stalked past Overlord, field snapping with unconcealed displeasure. He would not enjoy any moment of this. And Tarn would surely not be happy that Pharma had argued with him in front of Overlord. Pharma had heard from the trio what happened the last time these two met, and just how easily Kaon had been dispatched.

Overlord was a thing with Tarn, a thing that wasn’t going to go away any time soon. 

“Just come along and get this over with.”

Pharma transformed outside, not willing to walk all the way to the ship. He expected if he flew slowly, the three behind him would be able to keep up.


	6. Chapter 6

Overlord scooped Trepan up, placing him on his shoulder easily. Tarn lingered in the back, a miasma of moody temperament as he sullenly glared daggers into Overlord’s back. The walk to the ship was brief, since it seemed nearly everyone had fled the station and only a few ships were in the dock.

Tesarus, Helex, and Vos were nowhere to be seen -- they’d taken full advantage of the rare offshore leave Tarn had granted to blaze a trail of glory down the outpost’s pleasure district. Their new ship was similar to the  _ Peaceful Tyranny  _ in design, if not nearly as menacingly pointed. It was still decent and so far, unnamed.

The medibay was near the center of the ship. Overlord strode in as if he owned the place, shouldering through doors and rolling onto the slab confidently. All of it was for Tarn’s benefit, whose mood grew steadily worse.

“Explain the procedure,” Overlord told Pharma, keeping an optic on the brooding tankformer standing in the corner.

 

“I don’t take orders from you.” Pharma snapped, walking over to where he kept various tools, opening his servos to their full expansion and using one to calibrate the other. It didn’t bother him to showcase just how many tools his slim, blue digits held, but it did bother him to show them to Overlord and Trepan, both of which were completely untrustworthy and cruel. Pharma dismissed the DJD and their nature in light of his new allegiance, but that courtesy didn’t expand further.

Trepan was still on Overlord’s shoulder, though adjusted so that he could watch Pharma every second of the procedure. He wouldn’t allow anything that endangered his massive student.

“He has to calibrate his servos. They’re too chunky and clumsy right now to be near a brain module.”

Trepan’s commentary put Pharma on edge, spark pulsing with bouts of indignant rage. His tiny sparkling grew concerned, orbiting faster and broadcasting distress. Pharma stilled his calibrations, hand on chest as he tried to force himself to be calm. An agitated sparkling would only drive both of his parents into something worse, and this whole situation was already delicate.

 

“Hush, Trepan.”

“Keep your pet silent before I  _ assist  _ him.”

Tarn and Overlord spoke at the same time. Tarn’s ire was clear as he went over to Pharma’s side, putting a hand on his turbine as he tried to calm Pharma. Overlord shifted enough to give Trepan’s a  _ look _ . It wasn’t reproachful, but it was bordering on testy.

“I think that’s enough,” Overlord said mildly, barely looking at Trepan, “especially when it’s  _ your _ limitations that lead to this.”

Tarn still hovered near Pharma, looking concerned.

“Is he okay?” Tarn murmured to him, glancing down at Pharma’s hand.

 

Trepan didn’t glare, but there was something undignified about the way he turned his head. It irked him greatly not to be in complete control of the situation. If he had his needles in Pharma’s brain, he could learn exactly what measure of force he was applying to his servos. Trepan could learn almost anything, given the right subject.

“He’s agitated.” Pharma wanted to delight in Tarn’s concern, but not in present company. He flickered his field into the tankformer’s for just a moment. The sparkling calmed down easily, Pharma’s spark controlled for now and Tarn’s field close enough to have impact. This damn surgery better not cause any permanent trauma to their offspring. Overlord had enough to answer for.

“He’ll be fine.” So would Pharma, but that was a secondary concern to Tarn’s priorities.

 

Tarn didn’t move his hand from Pharma’s back. He was beyond just irritated. A peculiar mix of protectiveness of Pharma and their sparkling, and simmering rage at their two unwilling guests swirled in his field as he slowly looked back at Overlord.

“An irritance for an irritance,” he said, “You really know how to pick the worst out of the bad seeds around.”

“A prefer mine less tame.”

“Evidently _ , _ ” Tarn drawled, looking at Trepan distastefully. “Get the surgery done with, Pharma.”

 

-x-

Pharma couldn’t remember ever feeling more relieved to be done with a surgery. The past hours had been nothing short of hell, peppered with commentary from Trepan, the unsettling proximity to Overlord’s brain module and Tarn hovering in the background like some sort of angry beetle, ready to fight should the Phase Sixer rise from the slab. On top of that, Overlord had refused any dampener, preferring to ‘feel the pain’. Pharma couldn’t for the life of him understand warframes and the validation they got of withstanding tremendous amounts of pain.

 

The surgery itself had been delicate, more of a challenge than Pharma expected, having to perform a dual surgery in copying the activity onto the other brain module, (he did NOT want to know where it came from and he didn’t ask when Trepan produced it) as well as actually removing the techno-organic virus.

Pharma stood back, servos thinly marked with rivulets of Overlord’s energon. He was finished. The Phase Sixer still alive. The module would activate within the next two hours. Overlord was completely vulnerable, helm open and all functions restrained until his module could recover and reboot.

“Wouldn’t be difficult to kill him.” He muttered, washing his servos in cleaning fluid.

 

“Tempting,” Tarn agreed. He looked at Trepan. “Why are you so intent on keeping him alive? He’ll get bored of you, eventually. He always does.”

It was a loaded question. Tarn well aware of how fickle Overlord’s attention span was -- he’d experienced for himself once or twice. Having Overlord’s attention on you was an experience unlike any other. It was… intense. Laser-focused, so intent it threatened to take over.

Tarn pitied Trepan, almost. Fool probably thought Overlord would never touch him, would treasure his company.

 

Trepan didn’t have to dignify that with a response. Tarn was going to be a dead mech in the future, potentially even near future, and Pharma would burn with him since he’d thrown his spark into this particular pit. They were both fools. Trepan had been in Overlord’s brain and unlike Pharma, he understood it when he touched it. He knew the mech, he knew what their ‘relationship’ consisted of. And he knew very well that he was not a pet.

“Your concern is touching, really.” Trepan was still nestled close to Overlord’s helm, where he had held vigil over Pharma’s servos and plugged into Overlord to monitor his vitals. He looked every bit the smitten pet that he absolutely was not.

“But unnecessary. You don’t have to be  _ jealous _ , Tarn.” Trepan manually rebooted Overlord’s systems, cutting down on the recovery time and limiting the chance for the tankformer to take advantage of the situation.

 

Overlord was by design a high performance mechanism, made to be able to react to any given situation faster than his opponent. Pharma’s concerns were reasonable to mecha like his patients, or Tarn, but Overlord was  _ different _ . He was  _ built  _ different.

Between the invasive feeling of foreign system in his and the alerts blazing warnings of vulnerability, Overlord’s system flooded online in 1.26 seconds. His optics flared bright, cataloging everyone’s presence as his weapons whirred on.

Then, as Overlord realized the situation, he laid back, relaxing.

“I take it the surgery was a success,” he purred.

 

“It was. As predicted, Pharma was skillful enough to be worth the pain of acquiring him.” Trepan didn’t disconnect yet, his tiny system circulating through Overlord’s and checking for manipulations that he had not seen. Maybe Pharma had tried something sneaky.

The medic in question continued to wash his servos, which were already completely clean.

“I guess we can scrap the recovery time. Any normal mech would take at least an hour to reboot,” he hissed, wanting Overlord and Trepan gone like a bad dream. He felt exhausted just from being tense the entire time he worked, before and after. It was a mistake not to have run his laser through Overlord’s brain module. It would come back to bite him on the aft, he knew that.

 

“Out,” Tarn ordered them both, “Leave my ship, get out, don’t talk to me.”

Overlord’s optics slid from Trepan to the tankformer looming over them both. Then to Pharma. He smiled at the tension in the jet’s wings, the unhappy bent to his field. “You should be thanking me,” he said, ignoring the angry growl that drew.

He took Trepan with him as Overlord got off the slab, taking leisurely steps as he slowly strode out. His entire body felt free. His wings itched to stretch out and take him through the skies. His guns burned to be used.

Distantly, he heard Tarn ordering his crew back to the ship. Overlord didn’t care.

As he stepped off, his sensors located the few people left in the station.

His weapons started up as Overlord readied for slaughter.

 

Trepan had used the time it took for Overlord to waltz his way out of the ship  to carefully disconnect himself, spooling his cables into his arm as he basked in the happy glow of the tripleformer’s field. Overlord’s sheer joy was going to flatten this outpost. Trepan hopped off of his shoulder, landing at his side in a little cloud of dust.

“I’ll wait in the bar.” 

He knew no one would be in it at this point, the entire population probably having fled in terror of Overlord’s appearance. He may as well have a drink or two as he waited for his companion to kill every living thing on this desolate rock.

 

Overlord barely heard Trepan as his bloodlust reached fever pitch. He paused, long enough to put power into his jump, before he sprang forward slamming a hole into the dockside buildings. His plating wasn’t scratched, only gaining a lighter layer of dust as Overlord began to hunt.

It took an hour to clear out the outpost. By then, Tarn’s ship was gone. Overlord’s hunger was sated with the energon of a dozen mecha, his power core working through the metal he’d consumed to provide fuel for his self-repair down the road. Overlord’s stores were filled up and he left dents in the road where he stepped, he was so dense with mass.

The bar was the only building left mostly whole. Overlord kicked the wall down when he went in, uncaring of the entrance (which was on the other side anyway) and lounged on the bar with the pleased cast a well-fed lion.

“Trepan,” he said, stretching out, “come.”

 

The devastation had been...noisy. Trepan had been lingering in the bar, mixing drinks to pass time, listening to the idle scratch of the music that was still playing amiably, despite the entire apocalypse happening outside.

Overlord was lucky to have missed Trepan with debris when he kicked himself a new door through the wall. The mnemosurgeon emerged when summoned, radiating zero qualms about being closer to the monster that laid waste to the entire outpost. Overlord was sated, at least for the moment, and his celebration of freedom had been very justified.

“I hope you didn’t eat them all. I was hoping for a few live brain modules.”

 

“No one lives,” Overlord reported, entirely too pleased with himself. “We can take new subjects from another outpost like this, later. That’s not important, however.”

He reached out to touch Trepan. Petting his smooth, slick plating, Overlord smiled. “I will target the Galactic Council soon,” he announced, “and I will lay waste to their bases, their homes, their families. Planets will be ruined, once I am finished. You will come with me, yes?”

Overlord was already envisioning the destruction he planned to create. It was gloriously violent. Trepan’s presence by his side would complete the portrait.

 

Being at the heart of such destruction may not logically be the safest bet, but Trepan knew that the safest place he could pick out in all the universe was at the back of Overlord’s destructive rampage. It didn’t seem like his studies in mnemosurgery were at the forefront of priorities for Overlord, so Trepan had to come along, no matter what.

He didn’t mind. He could see all the odd beauty of the universe, laid to waste, burning and silent in the wake of a single mech. Overlord was always impressive, Cybertron’s worst nightmare culminated in one being. Trepan wanted to see how far he could go and to what lengths his enemies would go to stop him.

One such enemy was Tarn, who had the most peculiar talent that Trepan had briefly seen in action. It looked like it could be a lethal one, if used enough.

“I’m not done teaching you. Besides. You’ll burn down every world. Where else would I go?” The petting was...nice, actually, and a common sign for him that Overlord was sated and relaxed.

 

“Where else indeed?” Overlord murmured to himself. He grabbed Trepan by the kibble on his back, lifting him up and above Overlord. He was light, so light that Overlord barely felt his weight. The tips of Trepan’s feet barely brushed his expansive chest, as Overlord stared up at him speculatively.

“Do you remember what we talked about, before coming here?”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Of course he did. Trepan had not really had the time to put thought into another convincing attempt to talk Overlord into interfacing, but to be fair, his talents had been otherwise occupied. Dangling in Overlord’s grasp, he looked down, resting both arms on the massive mech’s hand.

“I do. I’m curious as to why you’re bringing it up now, though.”

He contemplated briefly if he was the only mech in the universe who could be in these hands without being crushed. Who could look down at Overlord’s thick lips and contemplate them as a comfortable seat during interface. And probably the only mech who could claim to have laid his signature into Overlord’s very mind.

 

“You’ve done very well,” Overlord said, “you could have been better, but now I am free. I’ve killed my fill, eaten my fill, and have sated every other hunger, except that of the mind. I  _ am  _ curious now.”

He set Trepan down on his chest. “I am open to suggestions of what you think we should do now. There is still time to kill, and wasting all the energon here would be such a shame.”

 

Curiosity, Trepan could work with. It was a different kind of challenge to convince someone who dwarfed him so massively into doing something pleasurable for only Trepan. Overlord was watching him, expecting something clever, because Trepan was very, very clever, and yet still didn’t manage to procure exactly what he wanted from the mech.

“Well, our options are limited. I would have suggested a lesson to appease that hunger of your mind, but you took out any subjects we might have had. Not that I am complaining, by all means. There is some kind of beauty in your strength. How far does your curiosity extend?” Trepan shimmied forward a little so he could touch Overlord’s face. Even his derma was near indestructible, although his rampage had left flecks of energon and shards of metal all over his frame. Nothing concerning, and nothing that worked against Trepan’s willingness to test Overlord in a way that few others had. Or so he assumed. Trepan had no real measure to go by. Overlord’s memories didn’t contain taking much pleasure outside of extreme violence. 

That prehensile tongue plagued Trepan’s thoughts with possibilities.

 

“It depends on you,” Overlord answered, easily lobbing the ball back to Trepan’s side of the court. They were back to their perpetual little back-and-forth, always seeing where and how their words would be taken. A small part of Overlord delighted in Trepan’s willingness to explore outside their usual zones. It was one of Trepan’s better sides.

“What you have in mind, Trepan, is something that only has benefits for  _ you _ . You talk of loss of control and curiosity, but things are still weighted towards your side. So Trepan, if you want what you want, then you must think about how to please  _ me _ .”

 

Pleasing Overlord. What did please Overlord? Violence, yes. Death, yes. Physicalities that Trepan had no chance of offering? Probably. But he did have other talents, and he could always try to employ them. Thinking about it, it was most likely his only chance at ever equalizing the playing field. He’d never used his skills for anything but what he was either paid for or made a deal for though. 

And the application of mnemosurgery for live stimulation was...limited. 

“I may not be capable of satisfying your frame. But your mind? I can still  _ that  _ hunger. Easily. In a way you will definitely enjoy.”

 

“Can you?” Overlord challenged. “Then show me. A demonstration, to prove yourself, then I will do what you want.”

He propped himself up on his elbows, tilting his helm towards Trepan. “What will you do? What  _ can  _ you do?”

The fact that their respective sizes limited nearly everything involving interface was no secret. Trepan was  _ tiny _ , small enough that his shoulders completely disappeared in Overlord’s hand, enough that he could sit on Overlord and still have room left over.

 

“What  _ can’t _ I do is the better question.” Trepan was close enough to lean over Overlord’s helm by now, his torso long enough for him to tap the top of it. He was ridiculously small, but he always had a knack of using it to his advantage. Sitting on Overlord was just one of the many perks.

He tapped the thick metal, caressing it with more in mind. The key to everything was right under there, a perfectly normal-looking little orb filled with cruelest mind Cybertron had ever known.

“I could make you feel, think and see things that have never crossed your mind. I could have you on the edge of excruciating pain or spasming pleasure, it is not that hard to do. Not for me. I could exacerbate your hunger until nothing in the universe but me would satisfy you.”

And he was being downright courteous in telling Overlord instead of just doing it. It would be the next step to ensure his survival, and it would be a marvelous tool in his delicate servos.

 

“All of those sound like interesting ideas,” Overlord said, intrigued, “ideas I would be interested in exploring. But keep in mind, Trepan…”

Overlord rolled his shoulders, easing himself up straighter. “Whatever  _ you  _ unleash will be the consequences you must deal with. What you see, what you learn, all of that must stay between us.” Overlord leaned down, until his helm was well within Trepan’s reach. “Go on. Show me what you can do.”

 

“I always do.” Trepan caressed the familiar metal, finding it easy to remove the thick upper plating. Overlord’s helm was as known to him as his own frame and the exposed brain module awaited his touch almost eagerly. Trepan pushed all thoughts of Overlord’s lips and glossa from his mind, engaging in what was single-handedly his favourite thing in the universe. He caressed each seam, finding his access points with practiced ease, and sliding his needles into them slowly. 

Draped on top of Overlord’s helm, he found himself comfortably in place, able to concentrate on this endeavour he was about to undertake.

He didn’t touch Overlord’s current thoughts, or his functions. There was no need for any modifications there, that was Overlord’s consciousness. If he fiddled with it now, the brain module would send the mech into recharge or shutdown and neither of those were preferable. Trepan instead went over to a subconscious part of Overlord. Something that seemed to rest, dormant even in the wake of his rampage. His desires were singular, driven in with force. Trepan loosened the protocols, freeing them up for new suggestions. He should start slowly, make new connections carefully. The joy of killing was a key ingredient. 

Trepan had Overlord feel anticipation, thick, direct, sent straight throughout his frame, from the tips of his fingers to the hidden folds of his valve. It had the mnemosurgeon chuckle when feedback trembled back into the module, protocols definitely out of use for a long time.

Anticipation was all good and fine, but Trepan had promised pain and pleasure. One couldn’t be had without the other when it came to Overlord. Trepan had the readiness that Overlord’s frame was slowly subject to flick over into a static pain, not dissimilar to a blaster discharge, shuddering through sensitive clusters. 

 

With the toughness and other upsides that came with being a warframe, there was also downsides. One of the most immediately obvious was the deadened pressure sensors. It protected them from being overwhelmed by pain. It also made them less sensitive to touch.

Overlord technically had the ability to make certain areas more sensitive. But those were for heat, and vibrations, and other mission-related senses. Touch, particular touch that related sensation, wasn’t real if it wasn’t delivered by a fist.

A psychologist might’ve been able to look at that and explain why Overlord found greater joy in fighting than in interfacing, but the nitty gritty truth of the matter was that Overlord’s sense of touch was stunted, comparatively. Where other mecha talked about the thrill of a caress or a soft kiss, he could only ignore it. It didn’t matter, because it didn’t  _ exist _ .

So what Trepan delivered to his system was a wholly new shock of feelings. The anticipation… he knew it, but this one felt different than the one that sung through his lines when he waited for a battle. It was different to waiting for a new victim for torture, or for a new plan to bloom into life. It raced invisible fingers down his entire frame and Overlord slackened, venting.

Next came the pain. It was familiar, this pain, but realer than before. What was supposed to be a dull tickle on his plating was a series of painful needle-thin prickles of energy that didn’t exist, washing down through his armor and into his protoform. Overlord vented harder, focusing on the feeling of it all.

“More,” he demanded, after the second feeling faded away.

 

Success brought a smile to Trepan’s lips. He’d had the right idea, after all. Overlord’s demand just confirmed what his frame and brain were telling the mnemosurgeon. Making a warframe feel, the way most other mecha did, was a feat. Trepan allowed the pain to subside, though it wasn’t gone completely, remaining in sensitive circuits as a dull ache.

Next came the hunger. Trepan siphoned it from Overlord’s battle protocols, the satisfaction cut out to leave only the voracious appetite for...something. Without a goal or target to direct it at, the tension and emotion balled into a loose vortex that could not sit within any part of Overlord comfortably. Turning hunger into yearning was a little trickier, but Trepan had plenty of range to work with. Overlord displayed his satisfaction most prominently, and it was the perfect base to manipulate. Promises of said satisfaction, of the sated laziness that Overlord idled in right before they started their conversation, were sent to his array. Trepan had no intention of laying hand on Overlord’s valve and spike for now, but directing waves of fabricated lust at them was crucial to his plan. Static charge would coil behind the thick plating, unaddressed and culminating in frustration.

Trepan adjusted himself, leaning closer, watching himself work. The access points were different for this type of work and he was concentrated fully on his task.

The hunger was still there, a gaping sensation throughout Overlord. And Trepan introduced just the slightest suggestion to it, a small notion of himself, accompanied with a faint taste of the satisfaction. He couldn’t just chunk himself into Overlord’s systems as his desired berthmate, that would be clumsy. No, just the suggestion. And he’d observe the reaction of that hunger, if it took the right route or would consume the notion entirely.

 

Overlord felt Trepan’s work begin in earnest. His needles carefully moved around in his module, until everything began to  _ change _ again. It was strange to watch as his perception of everything change so dramatically, going from idle interest to a sudden yawning hunger that didn’t relent.

Overlord shifted, uncomfortable as the hunger gnawed on him, telling him to seek out  _ something _ he didn’t know. Then the hunger evolved, pinging around his array and urging him to satisfy  _ that _ .  _ Clever _ , Overlord mused as a series of pings came from his array. It was a rather hamfisted move, but not one he could totally criticize.

He wanted for Trepan to…

_ \--his frame, his face, his mind, take it all-- _

...and was startled by the strength of the reaction to the mere thought of him. Overlord vented as he sorted through the newest onslaught of thoughts. It was a mix of hungry yearning buried deep in the areas his mind labelled  _ interface _ , along with the gentle nudge that  _ Trepan _ …

\-- _ TrepanTrepan _ **_TrepaNTREPAN--_ **

...well, maybe not entirely  _ gentle _ .

“You made an error,” Overlord said as he shuddered as the second wave of crazed need swept through him, “you targeted my array. Very unsafe, since you’re not bigger.”

He ground his dentae as the careful words drew up images. They weren’t possible, no matter how much the changes Trepan made tried to convince him they were. Trepan simply wasn’t large enough.

_ \--do it. Do it. DO IT-- _

Overlord’s control exerted itself. No matter how much he craved something, it was always controlled. A directed fury, like a storm in a bottle.

“How careless of you, Trepan.”

 

“I’m not done,” Trepan answered, calm as the eye of the storm. He knew what he was doing, and he banked on Overlord’s control. The frustration that came with the impossibility of using his array was exactly the emotion that the mnemosurgeon needed. He caught it, in the proverbial sense, and began to thread it through the notion that already existed in Overlord, that Trepan was precious and should not be hurt. Not as long as he was interesting, and beyond. It was, perhaps, the switch the mnemosurgeon had placed to ensure his own safety.

And now it would serve an extended purpose. Trepan took the rage, suffused it with possession, and coaxed the frantic want out of it. Such a forceful reaction would only lead to the potential breaking of his own frame, so it couldn’t be part of what Trepan was weaving here.

“Nothing I do is careless,” Trepan whispered as he sent a thick wave of pleasure through Overlord’s array, dousing every urge present before in the heated circuits. 

 

The need eased up, even though the hunger was left behind. Overlord drew in a sharp breath as Trepan’s final modifications came into play. His entire frame  _ sang  _ with urgency as Overlord’s mouth fell open, panting for air his vents couldn’t provide.

It was all so new. So  _ different _ .

As Trepan spoke, Overlord reached for him. “Out,” he ordered, heels crushing through the metal of the bar’s surface.

 

Trepan didn’t have time to think on his reaction. He withdrew his needles quickly, bringing them into the safety of his digits. Overlord being this curt meant something had come to a conclusion, and the mnemosurgeon had a good idea of what. In the mech’s grip, Trepan was oh so fragile, but his gaze was expectant, knowing. 

He knew exactly what kind of response he had just created for Overlord. It was time to reap his rewards, or suffer punishment. Either could be the case when it came to such incomplete manipulations of a conscious mind.

 

Using his array would be impossible. But Trepan’s earlier suggestions rang through his mind as Overlord dragged him closer, seating Trepan on his neck with no trouble -- he was too light to impact the functioning of the armored cables there. He looked up, at Trepan’s waiting look, and the corner of his mouth curled up.

“Open,” he commanded, satisfied by the thrill the changes gave him. His glossa slid out, the thick length curling over the curve of Trepan’s panel. It wasn’t even a quarter-way out yet and the razors were tucked in, though the bumps of their housing could be felt.

 

Trepan trembled briefly with anticipation. This was working out just as he wanted, as he planned and hoped for. His panel slid back, eager to make use of Overlord’s benevolent mood. Would he be good at this? Would his impatience give Trepan pain if he wasn’t responsive enough? Those were factors the slender little mnemosurgeon could not influence, but he was willing to risk them for this.

That glossa held so much promise, his field spiked with excitement. Trepan could lean over Overlord, reach for his stacks if he needed to. He was certainly ready to get what he deserved.

No matter what changes Trepan made, he couldn’t erode Overlord’s self-control. Overlord saw his eagerness and, like the cat that got the canary  _ and  _ the cream, he smirked. Rather than go for the prize, as Trepan clearly expected him to, he meandered nearer. His control over his glossa was precise enough that he could wrap the tip around Trepan’s anterior node and ignore the rest of his valve.

So, here he would get Trepan’s purported  _ loss of control _ . Would it be as impressive as he made it seem? 

 

Trepan suppressed the initial moan, his system pleasantly flooded with the first charge to build up to an overload. Overlord was showing his usual control, and Trepan had done nothing to undo it. It was part of what would make this all the sweeter. The mnemosurgeon bit his lip, keeping still despite the deep urge to ride that glossa into sweet oblivion. This was definitely a promising start, but Overlord didn’t  _ move _ , and that began to frustrate Trepan after a couple of seconds of woeful emptiness. His slender hips snapped him back and forth, trying to get more friction out of the steady pressure on his node. Calipers clasped with no avail and his array began to heat up, providing lubricant for a spike that would never fit. Trepan relinquished some of his own control, this time allowing a sweet moan to slip through as his little rutting movements provided a little more charge. Overlord wanted to see him lose control? He’d have to do more than just offer a vague, silent promise.

 

How long had it been since Trepan made  _ those  _ sounds? Had he ever? Overlord’s fascination grew by the minute, along with the well of pleasure as a mere touch from his glossa squeezed such delightful noises from Trepan. The changes he made responded well.

His glossa edged down, brushing around the valve lips. It was small, as he expected. Overlord let the side of his glossa rub against his entrance, teasing Trepan as he settled his glossa between his lining. The tip trailed around and back up to the node as more of his glossa unfurled.

 

Better. Definitely better. Trepan adjusted, eagerly pushing his valve against the glossa that would give him more pleasure than he’d had in millions of years. There was never anything like it to compare to, in all of his memories of Overlord. They never crossed this boundary, and Trepan didn’t know why. Caution? Weariness? Perhaps. But he was glad their game was extending to this, because his valve was clamouring for more of Overlord and it was right there, teasing him. A frustrated little noise escaped him and now he did reach to hold onto Overlord’s helm, his frame bowed over the massive mech, waiting and wanting.

He could not bring himself to beg though, even if his valve ached for him to relinquish any semblance of pride.

“Overlord...” his tone was both chiding and needy.

 

Close, close… even as his frame begged him to give in, Overlord made his glossa slide against Trepan’s valve in further teasing. His loss of control was interested, but his loss of  _ dignity  _ would be even more so. How many had ever seen Trepan, proud, cold, controlling Trepan, ever go so low as to beg for someone’s tongue in his valve?

Not many, Overlord was willing to believe. He would happily place himself on the short list of people who  _ had. _

As his glossa moved -- rubbing just inside the entrance, spreading fluid around -- he waited for Trepan to break first. Between them, Overlord’s control had always been greater.

 

The mech would drive him mad. Trepan couldn’t have it, but he also couldn’t press the glossa into himself without Overlord’s will to do so. The surgeon grabbed on tighter, frame tensing and shuddering with frustrated desire. Maybe he should have made Overlord more desperate to please him. He promised himself to remember that the next time his needles were in that module. 

Overlord would stretch this out until Trepan gave, he knew that already. But was he so willing to give up control, just for an overload?

Another teasing rub of that glossa, and Trepan decided that yes, he absolutely would.

“Overlord...!” again, the need permeated his voice. He pressed his valve hard against what he could of that glossa and whined, impossibly impatient. Millions of years since he last let someone touch and see his array. He was not about to play the waiting game.

 

Getting there, but no dice. Overlord withdrew his glossa in inches, teasing Trepan with a brief, hopeful flicker of his glossa near the first ring of calipers in his valve before it too, slithered away. Overlord watched Trepan’s strained face, a low chuckle echoing around his chest.

“Say  _ please _ ,” he said, even when his frame howled at him for leaving Trepan in the lurch like that. None of his struggle was on his face or his voice. “Ask me  _ very nicely _ .”

Wasn’t it funny, how even when Overlord let Trepan in his mind, change his thoughts and feelings, and Overlord  _ still  _ held power?

 

Trepan growled in the back of his throat, beginning to let his impatience rule over his good sense of control. Overlord’s game, usually such a staple to their every interaction, was annoying him for the very first time. He moved his hips closer, almost deciding to mount up on the Phase Sixer’s face, but a tiny shred of dignity remained. 

Begging? Really not his thing. Did his frame want him to forget pride and do so anyway? Most certainly. With his legs clasping Overlord’s neck, the mnemosurgeon could only look down at the mech’s optics or his lips, the latter of which drew another whine from his lips.

“I know you want to please me. I put it into your entire being,” he ignored the high-pitched whirr of his cooling fans smoothly and continued, “Overlord...you’re denying yourself more than me.”

 

“Am I?” Trepan’s argument was shaky from the get-go. Overlord could practically  _ taste  _ the impatience dripping off him. Overlord chuckled again.

“Yet here I am, holding back, and here you are,  _ trying  _ to hold back. I’ve more experience with controlling myself than you, Trepan. Do you want to test whose will is stronger?”

As Trepan watched, Overlord deliberately ran his glossa over his lips then bit down on his bottom lip. Worrying it, he watched Trepan’s expression with faux laziness. “If you’re so proud, Trepan, you can always walk away. Your pride -- and your valve -- will be untouched.”

 

Trepan couldn’t stop the influx of heat as he watched Overlord’s mouth. Those lips were too plush, that glossa too flexible and thick...he wanted, badly, and he was going to have to commit in order to get it.

The thought of being untouched filled him with dismay. In Overlord’s company, he’d remain isolated, completely unable to interface until the end of time or Overlord’s stubborn streak, whichever came first. The former more likely than the latter. And that thought was even bleaker.

“No.”

Trepan sucked it up, he wanted the overload, he’d have to dismiss his pride. 

“I want your glossa...I want it in me, and I want to ride it until I can’t think anymore.”

That was a plea, wasn’t it? Would he have to go further. His frame was so tense, it felt as if his pistons would snap if he didn’t find some relief soon.

“ _ Please, _ Overlord.”

 

The pleasure rush was all Overlord, Trepan didn’t need to make any changes for  _ that _ . He always liked it when the more stubborn ones came to heel. Obligingly, his glossa returned to Trepan’s valve, wriggling in. He passed the first ring entirely, then the second. Trepan’s valve was completely proportional -- as was Overlord’s glossa. When he reached the ceiling node, his glossa still wasn’t fully out.

It took some squirming, and more than little concentrated effort before his glossa coil in on itself, pushing at Trepan’s valve walls to make more space. He was just so  _ small _ .

As Overlord dimmed his optics to delegate more attention to his glossa, he found the nodes embedded in Trepan’s valve. His glossa slide around and over his calipers as they brushed against those clusters, his hidden razors dragging their blunt edges over each one.

This was more like it. Trepan trembled as Overlord began to fill him up, finally offering Trepan what his frame, his mind and his valve were so desperate for. It felt good, and Trepan no longer cared that he had to concede control to Overlord’s overpowering will. This was worth it. Another moan and Trepan’s valve clenched, holding onto that wonderful glossa with greed. 

“Yes...yes, like that,” his voice was low, his optics dimmed and Trepan began to move himself, impatiently pushing as much as he could, valve amply filled with glossa and calipers expanded to provide room. There was barely any space left, his transfluid filling up every inch between himself and Overlord’s glossa. Heat spiked through him, the charge building from every flaring part of his nodes. Trepan bowed closer, helm resting on Overlord’s crest.

 

Overlord shifted Trepan forward, so his valve rested squarely on his mouth. Using the proximity, he pushed his glossa in deeper, running it along every node he could find. Space was growing tight but the slickness of Trepan’s transfluid made it easier to slip his glossa against itself. Fluid was dripping down his glossa, down his lips, and his chin as Trepan continued to moan atop him, riding his glossa.

Rather than letting his hands hang around uselessly, Overlord used one to pillow his helm and the other to stroke down Trepan’s helm. He took an antenna between his fingers, delicately rubbing the thin metal as his glossa worked away at Trepan’s valve.

Overlord’s own reaction to all of this wasn’t insignificant. Protocols fired up, still pinging for his attention, but Overlord shut them all down. His valve and spike went unused for a reason. His entire frame was heating up, however, as his body readied for a fight that wasn’t coming.

 

Trepan let go of his precious control when Overlord fondled his antenna. He couldn’t bear holding back anymore, it felt too good to be seated on Overlord’s plush lips and have his thick glossa move around in him. Moans began tumbling out in sequence, Trepan’s thighs trembling with every repeated motion. His charge was building, heavy and static and wonderful.

This was what he’d made an effort for. This was what Overlord could have given him a long time ago, if they had not danced around the subject so diligently.

He rocked into each motion, clinging to Overlord’s helm, preening into his touch, happy to let the triplechanger permeate and overpower his existence for the moment.

 

He felt the moment Trepan surrendered himself to Overlord. He was no longer holding back his sounds, no longer trying to contain the insistent rocking and grinding on Overlord’s mouth. He was gone, lost, and it’d taken Overlord less effort than decimating the residents of this outpost had.

Such were the effects of long-term deprivation. Overlord himself had interfaced only a few times with those his equal -- other Warriors Elite, mostly -- but it’d always been more a fight for dominance than pleasure. Wasn’t Trepan lucky Overlord had such a soft spot for him?

His glossa moved more, shifting and running up and down nodes as he onlined his optics to see Trepan’s face. He wanted to see the moment Trepan looked ready to overload, because soft spot or not, Overlord liked his cruel jokes.

 

Trepan had no idea of what Overlord was thinking at the moment, and for once he did not care. He was enjoying himself, seated on the most dangerous mech in the universe, riding his glossa because he’d made it so. There was nothing he needed to contemplate beyond that. Trepan held on, just barely, optics flaring now that the charge was rapidly ramping up to bring him sweet deliverance. He could get used to this, being spoiled by a glossa thickly coiling in his valve. He was close. It had been so long.

He wouldn’t give Overlord much opportunity or warning for it, although a long moan lodged in his throat, the tension too much in his frame, vents hissing steam. His little frame had not been this exerted since his resurrection, and a long time before that.

So close. Just a few seconds more.

 

Wasn’t the greatest temptation the one only inches --or in this case, seconds -- away?

Overlord’s glossa coiled out of Trepan’s valve with remarkable speed, trailing fluid as it did so. He gave his node one last, mocking kiss before dragging Trepan off his mouth enough that his smirk was visible.

“Oops,” he said, savoring each word, “My mouth got tired. Hope you’re not too disappointed.”

Trepan’s pleasure gave Overlord pleasure. What Trepan forgot to do, however, was make sure Overlord had a negative incentive to not continuing that pleasure. You could convince Overlord to do something -- he might even do it, on whim. What you also had to do, if you actually wanted the job done, was to convince him to do something  _ or else _ . 

Megatron knew this. Trepan had less experience in handling Overlord.  _ Like I said --  careless of you, Trepan. _

It was always so enjoyable to poke holes in people’s grand displays of dignity and control. How would Trepan react, with his overload snatched away just as he reached it?

 

Trepan wanted to screech, he really did. Overlord was a downright monster. The killing, the rampaging, eating people, that was all fine. But stealing Trepan’s well-deserved overload? After bringing him so close?

There was no end to his cruelty. Trepan sat where Overlord had pushed him, back on his chest, valve throbbing, aching and mourning for the sudden loss, his optics wide and for a second, entirely speechless. He had made a mistake? And Overlord had played him. Of course he had.

“...Of course not.”

Trepan clambered off of the tripleformer, absolutely furious as his field screamed disappointment Overlord’s way. There was no dignity in snapping his panel shut, his thighs covered in transfluid, but he was wobbling away from Overlord, determined to march right out into the devastated outpost. 

 

Overlord let Trepan go as laughter, slow and poisonous and mean, bubbled out his chest and into the air. He laughed, despite the fluids still on his face, despite the aching in his frame, as Trepan climbed off him in a perfect snit.

He waited until Trepan cleared the door before rising, sensors already tuning into where the mnemosurgeon was headed. He still hadn’t finished his fun, so Overlord got up and began to follow Trepan. He couldn’t leave the planet without Overlord, and there was almost no place to hide. Trepan should’ve predicted this, if he really thought he knew Overlord. For someone who dug around his mind so often, Trepan still didn’t catch up totally.

“Trepa~an,” Overlord called as he stalked the little mech, “someone of your delicate disposition shouldn’t be wandering alone like this~.”

 

Trepan wanted Overlord to disappear in a ditch right now. He was aroused, he was angry, and he didn’t care where he was going. How could he have miscalculated so badly? He should have built in a pain trigger for Overlord, to prevent him from using Trepan’s desires against him. His impatience had cost him dignity, an overload, and power in their game. Trepan’s little fists continued to swing as he carried on, walking faster now that the massive mech stalked behind him.

“Everyone’s dead. Leave me be.” he snapped, already knowing Overlord would not. He just didn’t want to be near the tripleformer until he composed himself, which meant he had to coax out the overload Overlord had strangled in its infancy.

 

“What if you fall into a crater? Or someone isn’t as dead as they looked?” Overlord chortled behind Trepan as one step of his ate up three of Trepan’s, allowing him amble behind the angry mech. “Did I  _ upset  _ you? Are you  _ upset _ , Trepan?”

On and on, Overlord needled at Trepan. Whenever Trepan tried to leave him, Overlord caught up. There was no escaping his mockery, no running and hiding from his laughter. No one, not even Trepan, was safe from Overlord’s keen desire to  _ hurt _ .

“Maybe if you ask nic~ely, my mouth won’t be as tired anymore.  _ Please, Overlord  _ sounded  _ very  _ good to me.”

 

Trepan chose to remain silent. There was no way in hell he was going to repeat that plea. He’d rather rust, an untouched mech until his death. Never would he give in to his impatience again. Overlord and his accursed glossa....Slag it. His steps were squelchy, his panel still wet. How could he have let himself sink so low?

“Don’t you have colonies to wipe out?” 

Trepan wanted to sulk in solitude, away from those smirking lips that felt so good on his valve.

 

“They can wait.” Trepan was  _ still  _ terribly snitty, wasn’t he? Usually, he handled Overlord’s little jokes with aplomb. Deprivation weakened people, it seemed.

It took one lazy grab to scoop Trepan up. A few quick moves, and Trepan was held tightly, arms above his helm as Overlord held his limbs together. Overlord brought him closer, grinning. Trepan looked good like this, helplessly angry and thoroughly outmaneuvered.

“You’re clever, I’ll give you that,” Overlord said, “but you don’t  _ think  _ as nearly as often as you should. Temper that quick wit, that impatience. Maybe you might outwit me one day, if you try hard. Your little upsets are cute, Trepan, but I doubt others would  _ agree _ .”

 

None of that made Trepan feel any better, or relieved the pressure of his valve. He stared at Overlord, petulant and disappointed. Overlord always had to win, no matter the cost. And this time, it had been gravely personal.

“Are you willing to let others judge me over you?”

He very much doubted he’d ever be in a situation where anyone else was responsible for his life.

 

“You died the last time,” Overlord said, tone dipping into seriousness, “I intend to ensure you won’t this time around.”

Then he was back, mocking and insincere. “Don’t be so upset,” he said, leaning into brush his lips over the tubes on Trepan’s chest, “It was only  _ one  _ overload. I can give you more. Steadily, since you’re so cranky without them.”

“But  _ before  _ that…”

Overlord looked up. “Promise you won’t leave my side, for any reason, no matter how important it seems, or how safe it seems. Promise it.”

 

Overlord had some nerve, demanding such commitment from Trepan after hanging him out to dry. The kissing of his chest was kind of placating the rage though. Trepan didn’t have a chance in the universe without Overlord, no matter how infuriating the mech could be. Next time, Trepan would outmaneouver him and the tripleformer would suffer if he disappointed the mnemosurgeon. That much, he could promise.  Maybe not in so many words. It seemed illogical and stupid to distance himself from Overlord permanently, but a stroll hardly counted.

“Fine, fine. Even if I am loathed by your existence, I won’t.” Trepan found no dilemma in envisioning himself with Overlord, on his shoulder, or in his grasp, or preferably on his face. The destruction would never touch him. 

“I don’t make the same mistake twice.”

It was a promise of his own. Next time, Overlord would be the aching to give Trepan an overload, and he’d suffer if he didn’t.

 

“Then I will just have to find more mistakes for you to make,” Overlord kissed the tube again, before nosing down to Trepan’s legs. He insinuated his glossa between his thighs, collecting fluid as he snaked through. 

“Shall we continue?”


	8. Chapter 8

Overlord didn’t skimp on the overloads this time around. He still teased and dragged it on, but made sure Trepan got every bit he deserved and then some. It would make the future more interesting, once Trepan got over his bliss and started plotting on how to outsmart Overlord in the berthroom games.

Overlord’s hunger was temporarily sated once he deemed Trepan sufficiently ‘faced out, though he didn’t bother moving him much. Trepan was still sprawled over his face when his glossa withdrew. His valve had gotten more of a workout today than it had in the last three million years, and it showed. Overlord wasn’t even sure if Trepan was awake anymore. Once they crossed the threshold of the third overload, Trepan got a lot more… gooey.

 

Gooey was a good description. Trepan couldn’t feel parts of himself, they’d lost connection during the last overload. Overlord had mastered him in a way that was perfectly agreeable with Trepan and his content little spark. He wasn’t unconscious yet, but he also wasn’t going to move much. His frame twitched, his helm was pressed to Overlord’s face. He could kiss the maniac for the acrobatics his glossa had proven capable of, but he didn’t follow that impulse. 

“Should I ask how you’re so good at that? Because I don’t recall ever seeing you do this in your memories.”

He leaned back, shimmying to Overlord’s neck then chest so the mech could speak. He looked absurdly great, covered in Trepan’s vaguely pink transfluid.

“Patience and stamina. I watch you, and go from there. Simple, when you just  _ learn _ .” Half the reason Overlord took so long was so he could make sure he wasn’t making any mistakes. The basic concept was easy, and learning Trepan’s pleasure tells was simple as following the moans.

Trepan’s sour mood was thoroughly fragged out of him. Overlord himself had overloaded exactly once, when Trepan’s changes took all of his pleasure to deliver their load back onto Overlord. His threshold was higher than Trepan’s, however, so four of his was one of Overlord’s (and a middling one at that). It still left an ache in his array, which had gone untouched the entire time, but Overlord wasn’t ruled by what his frame wanted. He’d made Trepan go to all this trouble just to see if he  _ could _ , not because Overlord was craving an overload of his own.

“Still upset, or are you feeling warmer to me now?” Overlord patted Trepan’s back, lazy. They were still outside, watching the night sky pass overhead.

 

“I may be feeling mildly more inclined towards you.” Trepan purred, content beyond anything right now, and completely happy to pet Overlord’s face. It was nice, on this lonely, dead outpost. Just the two of them, amidst the destruction Overlord had caused with such glee.

This was how it would be. Trepan was fine with that. He was still buzzing with charge and Overlord was a big, warm warframe.

The mnemosurgeon placed an uncharacteristically soft kiss on those smeared, plush lips. Overlord had still given him what he wanted, even after laughing about his victory over Trepan’s planned out, hard work earlier.

“I can’t move right now.”

 

“I would be disappointed if you could,” Overlord said, accepting the kiss with good grace. “Since you’re in such a good mood, I want you to do something.”

The gnawing hunger was there, biting at the edges of his self-control. Another point towards Trepan’s carelessness -- he didn’t give the changes a decay deadline. If Overlord had been anyone else, Trepan’s overloads would’ve jumped from pleasureful to  _ painful  _ long ago.

“Get rid of your adjustments. Nothing more. Take it back.”

If Trepan tried to pull one over him… then Overlord would teach him why it was a bad idea to give a warframe an insatiable appetite.

 

That soured Trepan’s mood. No repetition? What if Trepan wanted more? Was this to be the only time Overlord would do him the favour of interfacing? Or were they holding Overlord in place, bringing to the very edges of what he could bear?

Trepan was still pliable enough to comply. Another kiss, and he leaned up, stretching his torso over Overlord’s helm, tapping the panel to slide back. Even drunk on overloads and dissipating charge, he could do this.

“They’ll be better next time,” he muttered, undoing the connections slowly, returning Overlord to his deadened state. No more adjustments for now. This was just another new step in their game and Trepan would prepare for their next bout more carefully.

 

The changes relinquished their hold over Overlord, leaving his mind to himself again. The hunger was gone, replaced by his perpetual boredom with everything around him. One hunger, replaced by another. His low-key arousal retreated, and looking at Trepan didn’t send a flood of possessiveness through Overlord.

Good.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Overlord said, “as long as you remove them after we’re done.” The first time Trepan faltered -- and he would, Overlord was sure of it -- the punishment would be cruel. Not enough to traumatize Trepan, but  _ enough _ .

He vented as the fluids on them congealed a little more. The cool air didn’t bother him -- Overlord emitted more than enough heat to make himself comfortable even in dead vacuum, or subzero temperatures -- but it was affecting the transfluid coating his mouth.

“Attachment,” Overlord said. “You always talked about avoiding it. Why haven’t you?”

 

“Why would you think I am attached? Because we interfaced?” Trepan closed up the helm, then sat back to have this curious conversation, with his transfluid still clinging to Overlord’s face. It looked good on his pale derma, Trepan mused.

“Overlord, I haven’t interfaced in millions of years. It’s pleasurable, and I wanted it.”

That anything beyond that existed, Trepan avoided thinking about with great ease.

 

“Because you freed me.” Overlord could lie with startling ease, but when he chose naked honesty, it was blunt. “Because you look at my brain module, and have yet to enslave me. Many people have opened me up, Trepan, and looked at my internals, my protoform, my mind. Each time, they chose to make me a slave. Until you.”

Overlord’s optics lit up his face as they brightened. Red light glimmered off the transfluid around his mouth, highlighting his thoughtful frown. Trepan made his changes, but they were always suggestions, not orders. They were done honestly, with the option to back out. It was telling that, even when adjusting Overlord’s brain to find him sexually fulfilling, he never forced Overlord’s attention. He could have, but he did not.

“If that’s not attachment, what is it?”

 

“Respect, I’d say.” Trepa didn’t have to think about this notion, or rather, it wasn’t the first time it had crossed his mind. He knew plenty just how everyone who Overlord had come into contact with reacted. If they weren’t terrified, they wanted to possess him. Break his will, enforce their own, turn him into their slave and weapon.

“You have an interesting mind. You’re an agent of chaos. I gain nothing out of turning you into my tool. At least, breaking your mind to do so. It is much harder to simply allow you to be unfettered, and choose to keep my company. That’s a much greater success than wiping your brain module clean of your will. Besides,” Trepan stretched, entirely comfortable on the warm chassis he was resting on,

“You have a poor history with your former masters. I would not join their ranks.”

 

“Then why stay? You could have a more comfortable living working with Autobots as their pet mnemosurgeon. Their hands aren’t as clean as they pretend and you could have a steady supply of subjects to test on.”

Sentimentality aside, Overlord didn’t get where he was because he trusted easily. Trepan was a wild card in this aspect. For now, Overlord could trust him to work for their mutual benefit. What would happen, however, if the situation were to ever turn? Overlord’s diligence in keeping Trepan close was double-sided; it kept Trepan safe  _ and _ it kept Trepan where he could watch him.

“Why stay with me?”

 

“You sure are full of questions tonight.” Trepan looked up at the stars. He never had an urge to be among them, to explore and see the deepest reaches of space. And yet, at Overlord’s side, that was a staple of his life, seeking out new worlds, witnessing their destruction...they were explorers in the worst kind of way.

“I don’t want to live under Autobot rule. They have so many rules, fickle morals...the Institute always operated in secrecy. I very much doubt they’d simply restore it now, with politics trying to pool together former Decepticons and Autobots. It’s too delicate to be changing minds, one discovery would reignite the war. I’d most likely be erasing memories for pennies.”

Trepan scoffed at that.

“Why would I want that? Anyway, better to follow the storm than stand in its path.”

 

Torturing the truth out of Trepan would be so easy.

Pluck his precious needles out and hold Trepan down as he pushed them into his lenses, one by one… stop short of touching his brain module, of course. Saw his legs off, crack open his sparkchamber and siphon plasma away from it… Overlord didn’t have Tarn’s talent, but experimentation lended the knowledge required to navigate his way around sparks. It would be easy. He could start right now. Trepan’s changes were gone, weren’t they? He felt no opposing urge against torturing Trepan, besides the dull consideration of whether the pros outweighed the cons.

Simple. Easy. Quick. Honesty had a way of showing up when the other option was pain. Trepan already demonstrated his inability to control himself, hadn’t he? Pain and pleasure were closer than one knew -- it just required a different touch for those same sensors to be screaming a different tune.

Easy, easy,  _ easy _ … did Overlord want easy?

He wanted his answers. He wanted honesty, but did he want that  _ easily _ ?

Instant gratification had its merits and its challenges -- just look at Trepan, after he’d been denied the first time. But would the wait foster greater enjoyment? Was Overlord interested in handicapping himself, taking away one of his greatest strengths, so he could test his mettle against Trepan’s soft leverage?

_ Following the storm _ . Trepan made it sound so flippant, didn’t he? Like he was casually following destruction because he could. Not as if he really wasn’t just a leaf in the wind, only kept intact because the storm willed it. Would Trepan be so casual, if he understood how close he was to Overlord’s mercurial temperament turning from Neutrals and organics, to him? What would torturing him do? What would breaking off a part do? They all taught their lessons, but would Trepan be strong enough to stand it and grow, or break under the assault?

Clever, silly, arrogant little Trepan. He always underestimated Overlord, didn’t he?

“There are questions I want answered,” Overlord replied.

He patted Trepan. “But I think I can wait.”

_ A softer touch it is. _


End file.
